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COPMRIGHT DEPOSHi 



THE SINGER 



By J. T. 




BOSTON 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
1916 



Copyright, 1916, by Richard G. Badger 



All Rights Reserved 










OCT -2 I9!6 



The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 



CI,A438666 



The singer 

dedicated, (con amore, and cer- 
tain notes,) 

to those whom it may concern 

By J. T. 

''The world is a glass wherein we may contem- 
plate the eternal power and majesty of God ; it is 
that great book of so large a character that a man 
may run and read it." — Pure has. 

"Justice is their virtue." — Daniel, 

"Generosity their vice." — Anon. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Remark 8 

The Singer 9 

Shorter Jets 

Remark 132 

Love in 1915 133 

Werther Exhumed 134 

William in Belgium 136 

Ballad of England's Secret 137 

David in Heaven 145 

War-Poetry 148 

A Quarter of a Century of Song 151 

The Advancement of Learning 154 

The Giant 155 

Flowers 156 

The Last Stand 157 



THE SINGER 



REMARK 

On the advice of a friend whose opinion I value 
very highly, I have abandoned my original intention 
of giving this collection the title of 

THE SAFETY-VALVE 

Perhaps, as he hinted, this does have a mechanical 
tang about it, and suggests rather an escape of super- 
heated steam (he was much too polite to say 'gas,') 
than the gentle effluence of emotion, which I thought 
it conjured up in a decidedly poetical manner, — 
quite in our best modern vein. He proposed the 
caption 

SONGS OF PRAISE, 

which my natural modesty forbids me to adopt. 
Praise, from some lips, is presumptuous. So also is 
blame. Therefore, I choose the temperate middle 
course, and neither praise nor blame, but relate — 
for the sake of the story, only. — J. T. 



THE SINGER 

It was long ago in the harsh, dead past ; 
He was first of his line, mayhap the last. 

Young was the Singer but versed in wile, 
And the light of his lips was a doubtful smile. 

One came to him, — his trusted friend : 

"Our kind Prince bids yourself attend 

And wait on his wish in the Silver Hall 

Where he holds right royal festival. 

There is forward a joyous joust of wit, 

The tables are spread and the tapers lit, 

And all sit down to their bread and wine — 

Soldier and Sage, the grave Divine, 

Sweet white nuns who know not fault 

And merrier women bitter as salt, — 

A goodly sprinkling of carles and thegns, 

(For our Prince is a man with blood in his veins), - 

In short, of all sorts a gathering 

Whose pleasant wish is to hear you sing." 

"Tell, I pray, your hidden rede," 

The Singer smiled; "has the young prince need 

Of such as I when the great are there? 

Can my song make the fair more fair, 

Is mine a tune to woo or win 

Some fresher mistress to daintier sin?" 

"Yea; I will speak the naked truth: 
All day have they jousted with goodly sooth, 

9 



• 



Song upon song and tale on tale, 

But equally all, — none might prevail ; 

So strange the lays and so excellent 

The various ways of their merriment, 

That the Prince himself might not decide " 

Who should wear the bays in lawful pride . . . 

Then I thought of the songs you sang to me 

When my head but reached to your worshipped 

knee — 
(Twelve years ago! how long it seems, 
But I hear them still in my happier dreams), — 
And I felt once more your sterner lays 
Strike on my heart in swift amaze 
With the wonder of manhood and infinite night. 
So I said in my mind; 'His song will smite 
Straight through their hearts, — a flaming sword. 
And they'll hail him Master with one accord !' " 

Again he smiled on his follower; 

"Did thoughts make all this busy stir?" 
"Nay, Friend and Master, memory 
Spoke with my tongue, o'ermastering me. 
So I cried aloud: 

'Prince! I know one 
Who will vanquish these Stars as the mighty Sun 
Slays the night with a single shaft;' 
Then the Prince looked over his Court and laughed : 
'O Stars! would you see the Sun arise?' 
'Yea!' rang out the shout, 'though he blind our 

eyes!' 
'So be it then! If he lightens mirth. 
Or throws new splendours over our earth 
Deepening laughter in life's cold shade 
So we look on death nowise afraid, 

lO 



If he shows us valleys we never knew, 

And rivers undreamed, I swear to you 

No more shall he hunger or go athirst, 

And ere I eat shall he eat first; 

He shall want for naught in this fruitful land. 

He shall sing alone at his soul's command. — 

Though the nations crown him with iron and scorn 

A gift of God is the singer born: 

Go, bid him hither, his friend you are, 

If he is the Sun I will be a Star.' " 

Sad was the Singer, no more he smiled : 

"O innocent heart of an innocent child, 
My one disciple and priceless gain 
After infinite years of infinite pain. 
How can you know what the gray world longs — 
The passionate grief in its changeless wrongs, 
The hope that is greater than men or years. 
The doubts they have watered with all their tears? 
Men know it not, yet they moan in sleep 
For the living springs their memories keep: 
Though the fountains gush from the waters of grief 
They freshen a Tree to eternal leaf, 
And all would behold that living green 
That few have dreamed and fewer seen. . . . 
What should I sing when their woe is real, 
Is mine a smile to soothe and heal? 
Shall words of mine make misery less 
Or clothe the poor in their wretchedness? 
Oh, how could you know the world, so young! — 
Or I with my breathing songs unsung? 
Nought have I sung or even said. 
And the vast night thunders overhead. . . . 
Yet will I sing if the Prince desire, 

II 



He too, perchance may taste the fire; 
I will do my best, — let the soul go free — 
For you, lone friend, have believed in me." 

"I knew you would ! and I know you'll win, 
Those other songs seemed so weak and thin ; 
Which will you sing them. Master mine? 
That clear, keen chant of the sparkling brine, 
Or the midnight's hosts over uttermost seas — 
Or that golden one with the summer's bees?" 

Then smiled the Singer: 

"Trusting Friend, 
Let my done old songs have a peaceful end. 
Whatever I sing shall be naked-new. 
And all my words shall be doubly true; 
I will sing for all people," 

He smiled, and said: 
"My own true tongue shall win me bread; 
Each man shall have what he would hear, 
I will comfort the coward and drive out fear; 
The harlot I'll praise with right good will 
And nuns shall land my double skill; 
When I glorify virtue, the courtesan 
Shall smile in her heart, 'This is my man!' 
I will please them all with a two-edged phrase. 
For wisdom tarries in many ways. . . . 
If tears may cleanse the Magdalene 
Men shall not call my song unclean; 
If they follow a false guide down to hell 
My bitter reproach may please them well. 
For each may damn his foes with fire 
When he hears in my song his own desire; 
Or one may turn from the Past and bless 
Man sublime in his nakedness, 

12 



And say in his mind, *I am -divine, 
No god shall ever have groan of mine, 
We are the gods, this singer saith. 
And the old gods die a dawnless death — 
Like smoke they arose from the mind of man, 
Their end was told when the days began — 
When the first sun rose they vanished as dreams, 
For man's own thought is that Sun's keen beams/ 
But this man's brother hearing my word — 
The selfsame song his brother heard. 
Shall say: 'He is gathered unto our fold. 
True is he, and God's own gold 
His wonderful harp with its silver strings — 
Tears of the Saints, — and the song he sings 
Their griefs forgotten in living praise, — 
Hymns to the Highest, our Ancient of Days, — 
Praise that is pure as those holy tears. 
Endless and strong as the chain of years'. . . . 
If seed must fall on shallow soil 
Some will pluck the fruit of my song and spoil 
Or better, — who knows? — delights of the mind 
In far-ofif echoes, mayhap refined, 
Perchance made coarse, thus, some may sing 
After my voice, remembering: — 
'They trample my pearls, but what care I, 
If they make of this earth a filthy sty? 
Is it grief of mine if their sodden brains 
Tingle with joy when my soul complains? 
The ancient stars are untroubled yet. 
And they shall remember when men forget ; 
Our tears are not all of this gray world's woe. 
The seas know grief we shall never know . . . 
Vast is the web and splendidly spun, 
Larger than us is the lordly Sun: 
Time is a marvel no man designed, 

13 



Vast above time is the living mind : 
Though for some the stars are cold and far 
And men more precious than any star, 
Till man towers over all Time, supreme 
Over stars as sparks in his flaming dream — 
Imagining Time with an infinite might 
Makes all things for man's delight — 
Though some false prophets teach these things 
They are not in the song our compeer sings' . . 
Foolish or wise ? not I will say, 
And each may travel his chosen way; 
He may find black hell in his own black heart. 
He shall not find me, for I dwell apart." . . 

He was laughing now as he thought and planned. 
Till his follower asked, 

"Will they understand 
If you only offer them far-off things? 
Why not Tove,' — as everyone sings — 
Even a carle or broken thegn 
Would clap and clap till you sang again." 

"Right, as ever! clear-seeing Friend; 

Who would scale the heights must ever ascend;" 

And the Singer smiled his doubtful smile, — 

"But some say aught of the body is vile 
And Nature's self a thing obscene — 
False or true, what a word may mean ! 
Love, — of the body? Lust, — of the mind? 
But fear you not, I will sing one kind; 
Carles and princes, courtesans, nuns. 
All know a way that one love runs. 
Though in following after fickle feet 

14 



Their various wendings seldom meet — 
This will I sing as my breath is given 
And none shall die of love unshriven." 

Then with a curious smile he said : 

"I can imagine some white old head 
Solemnly nodding when it hears 
My song of love; — 

'For all these years 
Have I waited for one to sing the Truth ; 
Love is not shown to callow youth : 
Strong is the love of men, and true, 
But the mind's deep faith is known to few; 
Though maidens follow and women cling 
They stay not love on his vaster wing ; 
Though they touch his feet in their mortal night 
Few know Love or whither his flight: 
Some say 'flesh' and some say 'air. 
Surely his breathing-place is there?' 
But the mind's true faith is purer than this 
And draws but death from the spirit's kiss, 
Shared by none it dwells alone, 
Yet the chosen may enter and find their own.' " 

"If your song of love," 

said his follower, 
"Can do these things and let each infer 
What is next his heart, they will be content. 
And I'll not ask how 'Love' is meant. 
But one other thing all are doing now — 
Wiping the sweat from labour's brow. 
All those great singers who strove to-day 
In the Silver Hall had much to say 
(For they seldom sang) of the 'common man,' 

15 



— Or 'brother,' some called hfm, — many a plan 
For 'federation' and 'strong uplift' — 
All through their 'song's diviner gift, 
The silent voice to the heart alone 
That cheers the weary and stills his moan' 
These men put forward in confidence 
That 'spirit and matter are one in sense, 
One pulse of the Infinite through our veins 
Diversely felt, but evil restrains 
The free expression ' of self — such 
Their preludes; I understood not much 
Of all that followed, but only heard 
As an oft-recurring refrain one word — 
'Labour,' and one loud peal of 'lowly' — 
Or, now I remember, perchance 'twas 'holy' — 
So strong were their voices I could not hear. 
If you sing not thus, you'll lose, I fear. 
Your present rewards and pass unheard." 

"Sweet, some say, is a joy deferred" — 

The Singer smiled his inscrutable smile, 

"If I sang for fame were it worth my while 
To ape those others? — Be not afraid. 
There are men in my song and many a maid, 
All sorts I sing if they care to hear. 
And God, not I, gave the listening ear. 
Am I or the ear deformed to blame 
If they who hear put my song to shame? — 
If anew one sings it, mishearing me, 
Chanting ; 

'This leader set me free, 
I will echo afar in my own high thought 
The fearless thing my master taught; — 

l6 



Wide is the world and men abound 

Who are not shallow nor yet profound, 

These are the sinews of war and state, 

They shall praise my song, saying, 'we are great; 

The words of this singer none shall gainsay — 

Let us crown his brows with the deathless bay:' 

Then with his lips this man may laugh, 

'Song is the wheat, nations but chafif; 

I will take their bays, — may their business thrive 

For their foolish breath keeps the Fire alive; 

Without their gold I might not live, 

Though they understand not what I give 

Let them take and make of it what they will 

And wallow in torpor after their fill'. . . . 

If one, my Friend should report me so 

Need I rise from the dead to strike a blow 

In my self-defense or his support? — 

My own true song is the fit retort. 

Another shall swear I am one of them 

Wearing life's thorns as a diadem, 

And the humble shall say, 

'How he loved our kind, 
He sang sweet praise of the People's mind : 
Great above kings the People are 
For they follow their destiny as a star 
Leading them on till the many meet. 
One in their might, and smelling sweet — 
Annointed with righteousness, yea, with love. 
Meek as their Master who leans from above — 
In His arms a lamb, and gentleness 
Kind in His eyes that heal and bless'. . . . 
Many will call me insincere, 
Shall I bare my soul to their easy sneer 

17 



Or spread my life for their filthy praise? 
Let God be with them, I go my ways." 

But he said these things with a merry jest, 
And what he meant his God knows best. 
Troubled now, the younger man 
Doubtfully said: 

*'A well- thought plan. . . . 
But in truth, O Master, do' you scorn 
The faithful, the humble and love's forlorn? 
Have you nought of pity for mankind weak 
Wantonly erring, or man grown meek — 
Broken under the years that bruise? 
Do the hard bright words of your song refuse 
Comfort to those who grudge their days. 
Who faint and fall by forgotten ways?" 

Smiling no longer save in his eyes, 
The Singer answered : 

"Strange surprise 
On my strange glad day such questions bring; 
Have you, lone Friend, not heard me sing? 
Would you have me interrupt my song by rules ? 
Such labours delight the hearts of fools. 
Whatever I sing, that shall be true 
As I see the Truth my young years knew. 
For the cold nights hide my fire away 
And my light grows dimmer, ray by ray". 

^*0 Master mine! if I doubt again 
Let your love for me be swiftly slain ; 
Your true song echoes what all men hear. 
Each in his heart, but a numbing fear 
Chills the life in me down to dread, 
For their cowardly wrath will be on your head 

i8 



When you waken in some the slumbering brute, 
And I would, O Master, your tongue were mute!" 

Thus parleying, they reached the Hall — 
The Silver Hall, where expectant, all 
Turned from their broken bread, and smiled; 
But the smile went out when they saw him mild, 
Humble of mien and yet austere; 
And there stole on their hearts a nameless fear. 
Then one to his neighbour whispering 
Said: 

''He is the Sun and the Singers' King;" 

And she replied in swift surprise, — 

"There is that which I fear in his awful eyes." 

"Death," 

said another, 

"surely wears 
A sneer like that his cold lip bears?" 
"Nay;" 

spoke her sister, 

"he is kind. 
The light of his lips would heal the blind." 
In silence all the throng rose up. 
And the Prince came down, in his hand a cup. 
Offering wine, but the Singer said: — 

"The life of my song Is not wine-red. 
It needs not grapes nor their ruddy flame 
For it rushes like fire whence all song came — 
From the flaming oceans beneath all truth. 
Whence dreams arise and the visions of youth; 
For the song I sing shall stream through me 
As a iiery tongue from that uttermost sea, 

19 



If aught I utter worthily 

Praise the Sea, but thank not me." 

Answered the Prince then, marvelling: — 
"As you will, let the free tongue sing." 

A hush fell over the wondering Court: 
Here was a man of strange report, 
"Proclaiming himself? — a braggart he?" 
And they sat them down uneasily. 

A pause: he lifted his voice and sang: 
At the first full note the hushed hearts rang, 
Thrilled with the wonder of one clear star 
Shining on valleys and waters afar — 
Ages beyond the Sun's first dawn, 
Deep in a night forever gone. . . . 

In afteryears when they heard that note 

Soar in the night and slowly float 

Through dawnless dreams like a golden sun, 

Over lives accomplished and deeds undone, 

Over untold ages yet to be, 

Under windless waves of the uttermost sea, — 

No words they knew might ever recall 

Its splendid rise or imperial fall, 

Nor might their wise men prophesy 

If that star will arise in a mortal sky. 

"Before their eyes that Sun went dim" — 

One who remembered thus wrote of him ; 

"Then he showed them a valley where shadows 

dwell, 
To some it seemed a forgotten hell, 

20 



Others leaned forward with eager eyes 
Their fair lips moulded to 'Paradise!' 
This too passed out, a thing of sleep, 
A memory no man may keep. . . . 
Through untravelled ways a perilous guide, 
By mountainous lands and waters wide 
He led them on in hope and fear; 
By marsh and fen and starlit mere 
Where huge bulks huddled uncouth and dim, 
Up staggering crags they followed him, — 
Leaped the abyss at his airiest nod 
And walked on the thunders, lightning-shod. 
In awe they trod that black-ribbed place 
Where the flame-haired meteors blindly race 
Shorn of their locks ere they redly sear 
The tingling blue of an atmosphere; 
Then, quitting those fields for a vaster mead 
They soared with him on his pinions freed — 
Clean of all airs that trammel and cling, — 
Cleft through the ether on tireless wing." 

What were the things his music told. 

Is the Song remembered, the Singer cold? 

Long in the afteryears one said: 

"I followed a host the Singer led; 

Vast was the throng, but a night more vast 

Swallowed it up as sand that is cast 

A handful, to stay the hungering sea, 

And a storm blew strong from Infinity. . . 

Where the throng sank under, I saw a vine 
Spring from the dark and intertwine 
Tendrils of suns with nebulae 
Clusterwise, a tracery 

21 



Of rustling fire over trellised night 
Whereon red grapes of massive light 
Shone in bunches thick on the vine, 
And drop by drop an amber wine 
Fell from the clusters in flaming spheres 
Golden as noon or corn's ripe ears 
Rich in the harvest, — suns these were, 
Large as our own, but mellower; 
And this vast vine was the Living Tree 
Whose fruit renews perpetually 
Flame in the stars and fire in day. 
For its root is the light suns cast away. 

Tendril by spiral tendril clung 
Closer to night where closely hung 
Grapes now purple, now clear sea-green. 
Changing as pearls with a glossy sheen, — 
Dimmed as the wind from Infinity 
Sprinkled their globules dustily 
With worlds thick-strown and worn-out stars ; 
But as the bloom nor fouls nor mars 
Fruits of Earth when the spring is gone. 
Those ripened clusters fairer shone, 
And it seemed I heard a far voice sing: 

'Now is the hour for the gathering; 
Now will the aeons bind up their sheaves, 
And the vine shall shed its flaming leaves — 
Fires on all ages yet unborn. 
For the vine's last day is heaven's first morn ; 
This is life's first autumntide. 
But the life in the seed shall ever abide. 
What never began shall never end; 
Though under all ages the fires descend 
Like eternal corn shall they spring again 
As the grass flames forth from the frozen plain. . . .* 

2,Z 



Once more I saw the host he led, 

High on the vine-leaves overhead — 

Transparent as fire the vast leaves grew, 

On each a red stain smouldering through 

Showed where the grains of that handful fell — 

Ruby as molten hearts in hell ; 

Stronger blew the freshened gale, 

Could the clinging might of the stems prevail 

Against the life in that ghostly force? 

The first leaf fluttered a spiral course. 

Aimlessly wheeled and idly spun 

Red through the void like a drunken sun, 

Thus fell the first leaf; suddenly 

A wild blast broke like a tidal sea 

Down on the vine from the void vast night. 

And nothingness strewn with flakes of light 

Streamed past my vision: a boundless flood. 

An orgy of amber and flaming blood, 

A torrent of life and burning wine 

Rushed from the roots of the riven vine, — 

Gushed from the tendrils that burst and bled. 

And the life in each cluster crimsonly shed 

Rained on the torrent its scarlet heart — 

A fierce quick rain asting and asmart. 

Then was the whole vine rooted up ; 

Life poured the wine. Death held the cup, 

But whose harsh feet had trodden the press 

Only a god's grim mind might guess. 

I looked where the bottomless river ran ; 

From rim to rim of its infinite span 

The thick-strewn leaves of the rent vine raced — 

Crimson streaks, all parallel traced 

As sparks on the night from the forge that roars 

By titans blown on Sicilian shores. . . . 



23 



Each living streak was an erstwhile flake, 
And I felt the floor of Eternity shake 
Under a clamour that stunned the night, 
For no lone sky in its fall may smite 
Chaos to wonder or any sound, 
But a multitude rustling on Time's profound 
Filled the ages with choral strife — 
Enharmonized peals of reverberant life; 
And thus on the base of things I stood. 
Jarred by the grinding amplitude 
Of those various voices that swelled and pealed 
Louder and stronger in wills revealed 
To master all aeons, each voice its own ; 
But over them all rang a rising tone, 
Grave at first, from the torrent it rose 
An overtone of a wind that blows 
Warm with summer on autumn's trees; 
With a shaken moan as of outraged seas 
The low note trembled and rocked the void, 
Drowned all discords, as God destroyed 
All voice but its own and pealed supreme. 
For this was the voice of the Living Stream 
Where its volume towered in pent-up might 
An awful instant above all night — 
As the leaves raced by with a crisp dry hiss — 
Thundered and plunged adown the abyss. . 

Over all chaos the red life sprayed 
For the Living Stream was rent and frayed 
By the billowing blast from Infinity: 
Then I saw the Dawn of Divinity. . . . 

Lo ! those flaming leaves were seized and hurled 
Each as a universe, world on world, 
Each as a boundless firmament — 

24 



Whirled with a vortical life unspent 

Sheer and wide on the sundering Vast. 

I saw one leaf on the striding blast 

Loiter and pause ere it fluttered small — 

A transient gleam on Death's black pall, 

As a mote that swims athwart the dark 

Catching the ray of a glow-worm's spark, 

And through the length of its central vein 

As a slumbering fire ran a crimson stain : 

Then I knew in my mind, *a grain of the sand 

That first god strewed with relentless hand 

On the unsoiled sea is living there, 

Transmuted anew to stranger despair; 

Thus are the gods born, thus,' I said, 

'Shall a firmament flame from the seed of the dead.' 

Once more through the Song the Singer sang 

His first note pealed supreme, so rang 

Purer than hope over this vast thing . . . 

Thus it was that I heard him sing." 

But he who told the Singer's word 
In the afteryears, may have falsely heard; 
Another recalling as from a dream 
This selfsame thing, said: 

"Why blaspheme 
As this rash man in the Singer's name?" 

Then, proud as a rose; 

"I have no shame, 
No cowardly fear," 

said she, 

''to tell 
That he sang my lover back from hell 

25 



Where I know full-well he burns for me; 
Yea, ours was a strange adultery. ... 
I saw once more my true love's eyes 
Under the splendour of midnight skies, 
And a wind surged through the olive grove 
Where old love slain with young love strove, 
So all the branches bent one way — 
I shall see those trees till my dying day . . . 
All things came back with the Singer's voice . . . 
Not to slumber in heaven would I change my 
choice!" 

A silent priest, when he told his beads 
In his last sad hour, said : 

'Where he leads 
May I follow him still though ever afar; 
I have dreamed the wonder of vine and star 
All these years . . . but what of our host — 
I will tell you friend, for I yield the ghost . 
Down from those vaster meads we came 
Led by the Singer's changeful flame; 
Prince and courtesan, priest and carle 
Followed his feet on the heaving marl 
That hissed and spouted in sullen jets 
Crimson as blood when the battle-sun sets; 
By worlds new-born whose fiery cauls 
Outsmouldered the splendours of hell's red palls 
Where they lift and deepen with sultry breath 
Draping the damned in their second death ; 
By frozen stars whose icy glare 
Blinded the night to a leprous stare. 
By trudging moons that dogged the dead 
Where senile suns reeled overhead 
Splintered and riven to rotten crags 
Shapeless, obscene as the foul night-hags, 

26 



The Singer led, and we followed him 

Till a Plain leaned up from the chasm's rim". . 

But he passed out with his last bead told, 
And the flaming thing on his lips fell cold. 
A Sage, who remembered that starry place 
Told in his old age: 

"Sheer from space 
As a scintillant disk the galaxy wheeled ; 
What he deemed a Plain, shone out, revealed 
A swarm of outnumbered stars revolved 
In spinning whorls, and our minds resolved 
Misty wisps of it into spray, 
The spray to drops as a sudden Day 
Drenched our vision with absolute light. . . 

Then the ages marched before my sight. . . . 

Till gathering, ever swifter passed 

As foam in a tempest's briny blast ; 

Spangled with fire the aeons were 

As with stars, but dustier. 

More quickly strown than stars on that shore 

Where thunders time's ocean forevermore. 

The spindrift stung my blinded eyes, 

Lashed my mind to a dim surmise 

That here were all winds of all ages met 

In a tempest supreme the stars forget; 

Time was a coiled-up serpent, dead. 

And on wings not of years the ages sped 

Aglitter with galaxies blown from the spray, 

And the dream of Permanence flamed away, 

Red for an instant, ere whitely wan 

On those cleaving wings as the smile of dawn." 

This selfsame Sage, whose manhood's years 

27 



Had wasted their promise on crystal spheres 
Dreaming in vain of the Night's true face 
And of eyes that watch unseen from space, 
Told ere his death what the Song revealed, 
(Truth was in those dark eyes concealed,) 
He said: 

* 'Though to you who pray I seem 
To curse my God, — as the fools blaspheme 
Who know all things and as men pretend 
To the wisdom of God, — this is my end; 
Would I face the Light my lips one lie ? 
I fear you not for I shall die, 
I will this thing ; it shall come to pass. . . . 
Once more I behold as in a glass 
What the Singer showed so long ago. . . . 
I see his looms weave to and fro 
Through argent robes for eternity 
The threads of life and its mystery: 
As a prophet he stood on a mountain-peak. 
From the valley below I heard him speak; 
Though his words were mingled of cloud and fire 
I heard the end of my life's desire, 
For his words were an epic of life, and the scroll 
Of manifold heavens, man's larger soul, 
And I heard the answer to questioning thought ; 
The universe came to my mind unsought — 
Yielded its mystery up like a smile. 
Then I said in my doubt: 'Here surely guile? 
Is the meaning of all so simple a thing?' . . . 
Oh ! you who' seek, when you hear one sing 
Whose fire gushes up from the living Sea, 
Give ear to him attentively; 
Remember this when my clay is cold 
If you must forget what the Singer told: 
There is truth in song that is living song, 

28 



Elusive truth, though men search long 

They shall see at last the fire one found 

Ages before them in life's profound: 

Give ear, and rerhember! . . . Thus I saw 

Where the Singer burned, eternal law, — 

The thing I had groped for all my days 

Lay smiling and bland before my gaze . . . 

But as an ocean lacks a soul 

Till moons or winds long billows roll 

Over withered deserts desolate, 

I knew that smile was uncreate 

Of mind, bereft of meaning; thus 

I turned from snares most perilous 

Then through my gloom a golden note 

Slowly pealed, and sublimely smote 

The void to more than a living dream. 

For this was the breath of the vacant scheme, 

And the whole unwound, a simplicity — 

A moving wonder of unity ; 

His first full note swelled through the whole 

And gave cold meaning a breathing soul. 

Give ear! I will tell how the Singer sang 
What All Things mean, and whence all sprang, 
Whither they go, and how shall end — 
If aught ever ends; give ear! my Friend, 
Priest and Confessor, Comrade, hear!" 

Then all fell back in a beastlike fear 
And a shrill voice cracked in terror thin : 

"Great God ! it is the Unpardonable Sin !" 

From the chamber of death like swine they fled. 
Brave with the dawn, they found him dead : 

29 



"Come, Brothers! Consign his soul to Hell!" 

What they did with his body their chronicles tell. . . . 

A daughter of Joy when her end drew near 
After many a weary bitter year — 
Long after all others who heard him slept, 
Said of the Singer: 

"One stave I kept, 
One full ripe sheaf of his golden song 
A comfort through sin and shameless wrong, 
This was the Prelude's peaceful end. 
Though I walked the thunders, might I amend 
The woeful joy of my ruined ways. 
Though I dreamed with him through the aeons' 

haze 
Of glories gone over and passed away, 
Were the Stars for me, or the River? — Nay. 
Oh the World he sang was young and clean; 
I have never seen a field so green 
Or a kindly sky so mild and blue 
As the glad land's heaven he led me through: 
Birds flew there that I called my own, 
A meadowlark sang for me alone 
And I laid me dow^n by a river's brim 
Dreaming, dreaming, alas of him 
I shall touch no more though I join the dead, 
For he loved a maid and they were wed. . . . 
Under those skies he thought me true. 
The stains on me he never knew, 
Nor in those fields might he ever know. 
There, the sweet winds ever freshening blow 
Taint from the foulest, even I 
Dreamed I was clean as the summer sky. 
None roamed that World but we happy two 

30 



And all our joy shone young and new; 

Never Eden was so fair 

Nor Paradise so strange to care 

As our own green glade in the dawn's cool place 

And my love bent down and touched my face. . . . 

This thing of all the Song I kept, 

And when he ceased, I turned, and wept." 

As this woman told, he ended thus 
His Prelude: straightway clamourous 
Silence fell on their wonderment; 
Prince and carle in deep content 
Gazed on each other with absent eyes, 
Dreaming of vines over drifting skies. 
Then asked the Prince; — 

"This your Song? 
May I put the question to all our throng?" 

"Nay," 

said the Singer, 

"only the start, 
But ask, if you will, have I touched one heart?" 

So spoke the Prince: \ 

"Shall he sing for us? 
You have heard his Prelude, yourselves discuss 
Its merits or faults, myself will wait — 
Your speech is free; I do not dictate." 

Neighbor turned to neighbor then: 

"Nought says he of beasts or men, 

Nought of our State, of our People no thing; 

31 



y 



I find his Song mere bewildering." 

But some made answer in mild surprise: 

**Saw you not the well-sown skies 

Heard you not his first full note? 

If your mind is deaf need I requote 

What your dull ears heard and hearkened not? 

'How has he lightened my heavy lot,' 

You ask, 'has he cheered my water to wine?' 

No; nor was his Song a whine. 

Has he shown you no great thing to do? 

Come close, let me whisper it to you; — 

In your life's broad field be diligent, 

If you lack a mind your good intent 

At last may win you a golden crown; 

Rejoice in your strength! Be not cast down 

That the stars are forever over your head. 

That the Singer gave you dreams for bread ; 

Labour right well, you shall have your toil, 

He can sow no seed where there is no soil." 

And some, as the wonder died away 
(Wise these men for their beards were gray,) 
Wagged their heads and doubtful grew; 

"What is true in his song cannot be new. 

What new, not true, — it controverts 

Much that our older Song asserts. 

Throws dust in the face of clear-eyed Truth, — 

Wisdom is not given to youth: 

With age he may find the true Sublime — 

Man and Life; let us bide our time." 

Across the table a young man sat, 
Smoothly white were his hands, and fat. 
As he crumbled a crust and sipped his wine 

32 



He sighed ; — 

"I thought the song divine — 
In certain passages, — quite a gem — 
A Star in Song's bright diadem;" 

Then, to the graybeard judges: 

birs, 
I hear you speak of an older Verse ; 
You confuse two elements, Sense with Sound, 
Now, our Modern Song is more profound — " 

He spoke much wisdom with delicate grace 
Till the graybeards yawned in his fatuous face, 
And openly mocked him, saying; — 

"Here 
Is that Judge we have sought for many a year; 
Wiser than us, this young upstart 
Languidly murmurs of 'plangent art,' 
'Obvious artifice,' — soaring high 
He coins a phrase, 'the lyric cry' — 
Or steals the same from the dead old great ; 
'We must, kind Sirs, appreciate!' — 
Let him work at the trade he understands. 
His brain is smooth as his blameless hands." 

So they quarrelled like curs in a kennel fight, 
And God alone knows which was right. 
Impatient, the Prince now turned to one 
Large with authority:^ 

"This the Sun? 



I. A learned friend, to whom I appealed for help 
in regard to the interpretation, etc., of the several ver- 
sions of the incidents, recorded in the Ancient Chron- 
icles, upon which The Singer and the Song is based, 
kindly collated the many manuscripts in our great 
Library, and, in addition to this laborious task, gener- 
ously gave me much further valuable assistance. I had 

33 



You have heard his Prelude, can he sing, 
You who have crowned full many a king 



been particularly at a loss in regard to the discourse of 
One large with authority, — thereafter referred to in these 
Notes as OUR AUTHORITY. The following ex- 
tracts from my friend's letters, will, I am sure, be 
read with interest by all those to whom this Chronicle 
is dedicated. Others will not need the assistance of 
the Notes, and indeed, would in no sense profit by 
reading them, even if such extra help with the Discourse 
were, for them, a natural necessity. The extracts fol- 
low. /. T. 

Parolensis, April 17, 1915. 
"My dear T. : 

. . . the footnotes to the Discourse had, fortunate- 
ly, been supplied by the Speaker himself, and all, I am 
sure, will hold these evidences of a broad and pro- 
found scholarship in no slight esteem, but rather, with 
me, frequently express their heartfelt thanks that one 
so eminent in that high Profession which he gracefully 
adorned, has ungrudgingly given us from his bound- 
less store these additional lights upon a somewhat dif- 
ficult subject — the reconstruction of a forgotten song. 
. . . He was the greatest Scholar of his time ; and 
since then, few have equalled, and none surpassed him. 
. . . It is indeed fortunate that, although the actual 
notes of the song have long since perished irrevocably, 
the profounder Notes and observations upon the mere 
music by OUR AUTHORITY, have been preserved 
almost intact. We can, under these circumstances, 
cheerfully support the loss of the song. ... I have 
taken the liberty of adding, here and there, a Note of 
my own to the apparatus criticus, — these are all en- 
closed in [] and signed with my rubric, the Greek letter 
Vt — in further elucidation of certain points in OUR 
AUTHORITY'S treatment that yield only to a pro- 
longed study, — such as it would be unfair to expect 
your readers to expend without the originals before 
them. . . ." 

In view of the absorbing interest of OUR AUTHOR- 
ITY'S Notes and my friend's observations, I transcribe 
all in their entirety. /. T. 

34 



in Song's wide realm; is he your lord? 
May I will him the bays in just reward?" 

He wiped his lips with exquisite care, 

Solidly settled himself in his chair, 

And in words well-chosen answered the Prince: 

"Mere technique cannot convince; 

Though in this, — indeed Song's lesser part — 

I miss the susurrus of artless Art; 

In the Soul's high upper register 

His colour Vv^ere richer if mellower, — 

The phrasing fails of audacity 

That je ne sais pas quoi, comme on dii, ' esprW 

Novv here lightens the graver lines — 

As, instance in Aufwarter's^ large designs; 

So too, for Anschauung he offers us 

Bilder, — highly dubious 

However pleasing to the sense. 

The coloratura, too intense. 

Confusing the shading, obscures the touch — 

Strives after quality overmuch; 

In fine, he fails to discriminate 

Dolce far niente^s weight 

And dulce et decorum est 

Pro patria moris lightsomest. 

There are other judges more competent 

Than I to appraise the instrument; 

Let us look at the matter, — the manner may pass, 

And candidly ask, 'Does he hold the Glass^ 



[2. Designer of the Town Pump at Schweinkopft. 
Flourished before the German Renaissance. — f^.] 

[3. In passing I call the attention of all Shakes- 
pearean scholars to this astounding anticipation (cf. 
Notes 5a, 5b), on the part of OUR AUTHORITY, 
of one of the most justly and widely celebrated 

35 



To Life? Is his that magna ars^ 
That sprinkles a daisyfield with stars? 
rt Teyvn ixinelrai rrjv cbv(nv> — oi such 
ofioLODfia has he a single touch ?^ 



passages in the whole range of Shakespeare's works. 
Also, I now and here claim for myself the priority 
in this epoch-making discovery of a Shakespearean 
Source which is indeed a veritable fountain head. There 
can be no doubt that Shakespeare had 'read, marked, 
learned and inwardly digested' OUR AUTHORITY'S 
Discourse. In the proper place I will fully consider 
this new light in all its aspects. — ^] 

This Note was sent by my friend upon learning that 
I intended giving publicity to his observations upon 
OUR AUTHORITY. His enthusiasm is pardonable. 
/. T. 

4. There are three kinds of Art: (i) White Art; 
(ii) Black Art; (iii) Great Art. Of these, (iii) is the 
greatest, although included in a certain sense, in (ii). 
I find that the Singer does not possess (i), apparently 
never heard of (ii), and is ignorant of (iii). Hence his 
claim to the title of Artist must rest upon other 
grounds, if any, than upon a knowledge of Art, which 
is wholly comprised in (i), (ii) and (iii). [OUR 
AUTHORITY, when composing this Note (4), doubt- 
less had in mind the somewhat similar sentiment which 
is familiar to all, expressed in I Cor. XIII ; 13 : "And 
now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the 
greatest of these (is) charity."-— 0.] 

[5. G. Washington Culpepper, Ph. D., LL.D., Litt. 
D., etc., Professor of Pre-Socratic Philosophy, Dra- 
vidian Morals And Pleistocene Metaphysics in the John 
Peabody Jones University at Hotwater, to whom I 
referred this remarkable utterance of OUR AUTHOR- 
ITY, replied : ". . . although I am unable to trace 
the quotation, it would appear to be from 'A^tcrroTeAov?, 
(ttc/oi 7rotr7TiK77?). Internal evidence seems to indicate 
that these two lines are an interpolation of some later 
Editor who had read the whole account, and not 
merely the Discourse. Allow me to state briefly my 
reasons for this conjecture, they are: 

36 



Is his characterization firmly true — 
Gracefully touched with light bon goutf 
Do men and women live once more 
Where his song recalls the heroes of yore 
For our later years to follow afar, 
Till we see ourselves as we really are?^^ 
So many questions arise in my mind^^ 



a. The Speaker nowhere, except here, resorts to 
paradox in order to emphasize his point. 

b. This is certainly a paradox. 

c. The hypothetical Editor was thoroughly con- 
versant with middle mediaeval metaphysics. 

d. The form of paradox is analagous to that known 
as the Epimenides, and yet is quite distinct. It is more 
closely allied to the Sokrates-Plato, which, according 
to Albertus de Saxonia (Vienna ante 1390) is as fol- 
lows : Ponantur, quod Socrates dicat illam, "Plato 
dicit falsum," et Plato dicat illam, "Socrates dicit 
verum." 

From a, b, c, d it follows immediately that the passage 
is, as I have suggested, an interpolation. . . . 

I am extremely glad to have had this opportunity to 
examine at first hand a work which refutes absolutely 
the preposterous claims of the new school of mathe- 
matical logistics, — namely, that certain modern so-called 
logicians have discovered anything new. All their pre- 
tended novelties were well-known in the insolubilia of 
the middle ages. . . ." 

I give Dr. Culpepper's concluding remarks without 
comment for what they may be worth. Logic, and 
indeed Science and all its works, is, to me (fortunate- 
ly!) a permanently closed and sealed book. — O.] 

fSa. Another anticipation ! and this time of that most 
unforseeable genius, Robert Burns : 

"O wad some Power the giftie gie us 
To see oursel's as ithers see us." — ^.] 

5b. I can best describe my sensations as a "sub- 
liminal uprush." 

fCf . F. W. H. Myers : "Human Personality and its 
Survival after Bodily Death." Unless I am greatly 

37 



That only with difficulty may I find 

The vital spot in much that is weak — 

The solar plexus,^ so to speak. 

To get the matter before us, say 

That Life is a Feast/ with guests some gay, 

Some sad, som.e empty, some replete, 

But all, — as is natural, — willing to eat.^ 

mistaken, we have here conclusive proof of Myers' 
Theories. — fi.] 

I fail to follow my friend here. The proof is not 
necessarily conclusive. The use of the term "sub- 
liminal uprush" may not be due to OUR AUTHORITY 
at all, but to some later Editor. Time is much in these 
matters. /. T. 

6. It may assist those who are so unfortunate as to 
lack the Latin Tongue, if I give Galen's happily concise 
definition of the solar plexus: "The nexus of potential 
miseries." 

7. Cf. Horatii Carminum; Lib. Ill; Car. I, 17-20: 

Destrictus ensis cut super impia 
cervice pendet, non siculae dopes 
dulcem elaborunt saporem, . . . 
How often, when lingering between the walnuts and 
the wine, and gazing at the flushed and happy or 
dyspeptically apprehensive faces about me, has this 
profoundly touching sentiment recurred to my mind! 
My treatment of the simulacrum is, I believe, new. 

8. I well realize that the willingness to eat on the 
part of those who already are replete will be a stumb- 
ling block to many who regard only the obviousness of 
phenomena, and who do not, consequentl}'-, view all 
things in that intense light which a profound scholar- 
ship alone can give. For these "unfinished men" 
avBooTroKhdyoi), add the following gloss from Holy 
Writ: 

"Who can eat more* than I? (Eccl. 2:25); eat, and 
not have enough (Hag. 1 :6). Take thine ease, eat 
(Lu. 12 :19) ; eat this rollf (Ezek. 3 :1, 2, 3) ; eat with 
unwashen§ hands (Mat. 15:20). Let us eat and be 
merry (Lu. 15:23). Eat ye that which is good (Isa. 
55:2); can this man$ give us flesh to eat? (John 

38 



To make my fancy vivider 

Let us call this Singer a caterer : 

To Life's rich banquet he brings his dish — 

An outlandish mixture, neither fish 



6:52). Thy princes$$ eat in the morning (Eccl, 10:16) 
the fathersft have eaten sour grapes§§ (Ezek. 18 :2) 
words were found and I did eat them** (Jer. 15 :16).' 

[How much a word may mean when used by a 
Scholar of OUR AUTHORITY'S calibre! His 
thoughts on eat appear to be (see diacritical marks 
above) : 

*The insatiable hunger of OUR AUTHORITY for 
spiritual nourishment. 

fEvidently addressed to those who starve amidst 
intellectual plenty. 

§The proletariat was present in great number (cf. 
Chronicles), when the Discourse was delivered. OUR 
AUTHORITY, with large democracy' invites all to 
partake of his good things, each in his own manner. 

tA rhetorical question ; the Singer, as pointed out by 
OUR AUTHORITY, has neither fish (unless anchov- 
ies), fowl, nor flesh, to offer. 

WCan this be a delicate suggestion to the Prince to 
burn more midnight oil ? 

ttReferring no doubt to those previously designated 
in the Chronicles, as the "Graybeards." 

§§The Graybeards were jealous of OUR AUTHOR- 
ITY'S brilliant exposition. 

**This gloss, is, I confess, obscure to me.*** No- 
where in the Chronicles can I find the least scintilla of 
evidence that OUR AUTHORITY was ever induced to 
eat anything, much less words. For that matter, how 
can anyone eat words? The error is not, however, due 
to OUR AUTHORITY, but rather to the slovenly and 
unscholarly work of the translators of the OLD TES- 
TAMENT. OUR AUTHORITY was well aware of 
the correct rendition of the Hebrew, — as also will all 
who read these Notes be, — but, with customary and 
engaging modesty he prefers to let us infer for our- 
selves the truth from a tissue of misrepresentation, 
simply because the false is more widely spread than 

39 



(Unless anchovies), fowl, nor flesh, 
And calmly says, 

'My Lords, refresh 
Your fainting souls on this' ! 

Too light 
Pour V entree, even somew^hat slight 
As an hors d'oeuvre^ his ofiEering stands 
And cools by our unaccustomed hands — 
A suspicion of olives, a hint of cheese. 
With such a soupgon he hopes to please ! 
So, unregarding, w^e turn aw^ay, 
His effort is too bizarre, outre. 
And the Common Man, may he thrive 
On hints of meat, — keep his soul alive 
On promises? Where, In all his song 
Is that AcTT d8oT€/>ia;(o?€Aa;(oy aAeoKp dvi- 
oXeLxavoSplfivTroTpLfifi dTocn\cf>io7r d- 
pdfieXlTOK drdK€.KVixevoKL\XeinKO's- 

OV<l)Ocf>aTTO'7r€pL(TT€pdX.€)(pVOV07rT€y- 



the true, and any oversetting of the People's idols 

would smack of pedantry. — fi.] 

[***0n reconsideration, the text is easily ex- 
plained. OUR AUTHORITY would show us in 
this subtle manner, that while others may care for 
grosser diet (e. g. rolls), he himself is satisfied 
with purely spiritual food at the Banquet of 
Life.— fi.] 

9. The distinction between an entree and an hors 
d'oeuvre, which I make here, may, in the nostrils of 
the many (©t TrpAApt) savour of meticulosity and the 
lamp. The distinction is nice, but only through these 
and similar careful membra disjecta can Judgment 
achieve that large exhibition of its personalia which 
is requisite and necessary for the comprehension of 
the toute ensemble. 



40 



ke<l>a\oKLyKk OTreXeioXdywoalpaLo/S a- 

<l>Tftpdy avoirepvyaiv^^ which the People long? 



lo. Many, no doubt will be agreeably surprised upon 
encountering this beautiful word,§§§ the richest, the 
most varied, the most highly suggestive of all words 
in that richest, most variously subtle and diversified 
of all tongues, the Greek, — in my poor Discourse. But 
lest I appear falsely to shine with a glory that is not 
my own, — would that it were ! — allow me to fairly 
acknowledge^ that I did not myself trace this im- 
portant and brilliant light to its source of irradiation, 
but was drawn to it by those indefatigable seekers 
('researchers,' is a more appropriate term, I submit) 
after the more elusive rara of Hellenistic scholarship — • 
Messrs. Liddell and Scott, in whose Greek-English 
Lexicon^ — in every way a truly admirable and monu- 
mental work, a Masterpiece indeed ! — it may be found. 
The exact reference (in my copy) is: p. 837; col. 2; 
lines 29-36. 

[§§§Some copyist has written opposite this word 
in the Mss. the inexplicable comment "Anglo- 
Saxon hash is a shorter and more beautiful equiv- 
alent."— H.] 

[a. This Note, sublime as it is in the main, — 
its lofty and high-minded justice to another, and 
noble denial of self, must make an irresistible 
appeal to all scholars, — nevertheless contains un- 
mistakable signs of corruption. I shudder when I 
think that OUR AUTHORITY could, in cold blood 
as it were, split an infinitive. After this we can 
look with equanimity upon the recent violation of 
Belgium. But he did not do it! Culture is in- 
capable of such gross violence to the Laws of 
Nature, — to unfeelingly rend apart that which God 
has joined, was not in OUR AUTHORITY'S 
make-up or being. Some later and brutal hand 
has poisoned the well of his purity. He stands 
acquitted before the Bar of Scholarly Opinion Ifff 

tttAll scholars will respond to my Friend's pas- 
sionate appeal, which I would echo if I only 
could. — /. T. 

41 



(1 speak, of course, of the Spirit's fare. 
But we Judges must suggest, compare.) 
Have I made my meaning clear? Bien! 
Vaste est la nuite mais la lune est pleine/^- 
Henceforth all will be open as day. 
Let us look at things in a larger way: 
To criticise is to recreate,^^ 



[b. Surely a slight oversight has been commit- 
ted here. Neither Mr. Liddell nor Mr. Scott— 
if the Dictionary of National Biography is to be 
trusted — was born until several centuries after 
OUR AUTHORITY'S demise. But, I admit, that 
on the other hand it may be extremely probable 
that OUR AUTHORITY is modestly ofifering us 
a living specimen of his phenomenal powers of 
prevision, to which a thinly veiled allusion is made 
in the Discourse, (see the eighth line after that to 
which Note lo — the present — is appended.) Cf. 
also the text accompanying. OUR AUTHORITY 
designates this remarkable power by the term an- 
ticipation. To doubters of his ability in this prov- 
ince, let me say this : in any event, such discrim- 
inations as I have just suggested — between what 
possibly might have been and what actually was — 
belong, as pointed out long ago by Aristotle, prop- 
erly not to the large and just accuracy of Scholar- 
ship, but rather to the hypersensitive niggling of 
an unimaginative criticism. — fi.] 
II. The high and romantic mysticism of this beau- 
tiful line, will, I hope, win many to a more attentive 
hearing of an almost forgotten — unjustly forgotten — 
Singer, Transon de Bruyiere, from whose Chansons 
d'un Chou I have borrowed this jewel to lighten for a 
splendid moment with its transcendant loveliness the 
austere brow of sombre Reason. 

[i2. The profound justice and illuminative truth 
of the theory adequately set forth in this sparkling 
jewel "five words long" — to quote a modern Singer — 
seems to have been strangely forgotten during the 
dark ages between OUR AUTHORITY'S day and 

42 



(May I add, in a measure anticipatef^^) 
Life is the body, Art the soul. 
Their union in Song brings forth the Whole. 
Or, if Life is a toad, the jewel in its head 
Is Art, — as Windausgusser^* sagely said 



our own. It is well exemplified in OUR AUTHORI- 
TY'S reconstruction of the Song which he is dis- 
cussing. Without his Discourse, the Song would not 
be so much as a puff of dust, an evanescent memory; 
with it, the whole sounds once more 'n our ears, — but 
mellowed, amplified. — i^.] 

[13. Cf. my note b to note 10. — 0.] 

14. G. H. Windausgusser, not to be confused with 
his grandson, the illustrious author of Liehe und 
Pdckclh'dringe, and of that immortal world-poem, Wind 
und Wasser, die ewige Weihlichkeit, which has touched 
the hearts of so many maidens young and old in all 
times and lands, and which has softened man}^ an ob- 
durate masculine mind or hardened brain to tears of 
humble thankfulness for the goodness of God to man, 
— especially to His chosen, that greatest and most hu- 
mane of all peoples, who have mounted ever upward 
and onward upon the wings of a sublime spirituality to 
their rightful Place in the Sun — that Place which even 
the most covetous of men or nations does not envy 
them. It must be highly gratifying to all lovers of 
song to reflect that this stupendous world-empire 
(Weltmacht) has been attained through the material 
manifestation of this same spirit of womanly tender- 
ness and gentle forbearance which is so splendidly cel- 
ebrated in Wind und IVasser, by the greatest genius 
and noblest character of a race which is justly famed 
for its kindly treatment of the lowly and helpless. As 
an eminent Authority of their Land recently expressed 
himself to me, "the zvhole character and ideal of our 
People is adequately set forth in Wind und Wasser, 
and in the blameless and manly life of its divine Au- 
thor. His ideals in action have been ours: unflinching 
severity to the seducers of young and ignorant coun- 
try girls, kitchen-maids and countesses, so long as the 
seduction is wanton and not in the sacred interests of 

43 



In Wind und Dichtung, — a gemlike phrase. 
Now, not for a moment would I dispraise^^ 



the free expression of an untrammelled genius or of 
a natural necessity, but the highest award of honor 
in our bestowal to him who sacrifices his primitive re- 
ticence and continence in the interests of his Genius. 
Such was he and such are we." Song which can ac- 
complish these things, and raise a People to the World- 
Head-Place-in-the-Sun, is indeed Song! Proudly I 
claim that Motherland as my spiritual Home ! — The 
younger Windausgusser's initials were, H. G. 

[I must, in the interests of impartial scholarship, re- 
cord a view which is diametrically opposed to that of 
OUR AUTHORITY. It is now commonly held that 
Windausgusser's nation misunderstood him completely, 
and that die ewige Weiblichkeit had little or no part in 
their encyclopaedic conquest of the world. OUR AU- 
THORITY is not to blame for this false judgment — he 
is too fine a critic to blunder grossly, — he simply had 
not seen the great Chromatic Books, which were not 
published by the Conquerors until long after OUR AU- 
THORITY had passed away.— «.] 

As Windausgusser's song was not in any event, re- 
sponsible for his life, I fail to see the point in my 
friend's note. OUR AUTHORITY lays down an in- 
fallible rule (near the end of his Discourse) which 
should dispose of any such difficulty or its converse. I 
venture no opinion on either side of the controversy; 
my office is simply to record the (contradictory) data 
given me by my friend. In fairness then, may I ask that 
none will impute to me personally the less favorable 
view? /. T. 

[15. In OUR AUTHORITY'S personal copy of the 
Discourse occurs, in a Note to this line which (the 
Note) has been cancelled, the following curious 
couplet : 

APPRECIATION : 

Dead Gods' brains breed maggots fat with praise 

And stored up light from Suns of yesterdays. 
The cancellation indicates that OUR AUTHORITY'S 
thoughts had been straying. Zeus, no less than Homer, 
it would appear, nods occasionally. — ^.] 

44 



That art which sings of sun and star — 

But are these things not rather far?^® 

Man is the one great central fact, 

He becomes a poem when handled with tact, 

With that savoir faire we all admire — 

And this one spark in a singer's breast 

May make us forget the Stars and the rest, 

For is this not Life, the Infinite Vast? 

Is man not the Present, the Future, the Past? 

Or, consider^^ the Stars !^^^ who fashioned them? 

God,^^ for the night's fair diadem. 



[i6. I take pleasure in calling attention to OUR 
AUTHORITY'S great breadth of vision and knowl- 
edge, and invariably scrupulous statements, — even in a 
field like that he now refers to — Astronomy, which I 
sympathetically feel must have been extremely repug- 
nant to his beauty-loving mind. The Astronomer Royal 
of Timbuctoo, to whom I applied for information on 
this obscure point, wrote me : 

"... the statement is precisely accurate, as the 
star nearest the Earth is distant 9,988,776,655,443,322,- 
1 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000, - 
000,000,000,000.5 miles from the North Pole at the 
Vernal Equinox. . . . But how any one at that 
remote day could have known this, I confess, puzzles 
me. . . . Possibly he learned in some way from the 
Arabs, who were notorious star-gazers. . . ." 

This conjecture is undoubtedly the correct one. OUR 
AUTHORITY wrote poems in the Arabic to the lady 
whom he once hoped — in a moment of weakness — ^to 
make his wife, but who incontinently jilted him for a 
fellow of the baser sort, who knew only a paltry forty- 
seven languages, — and one of those imperfectly. Schol- 
arship can triumph even over the telescope! — 0.] 

17. It is said that this singer once mentioned a star. 
If so, I here meet him on his own domain. What 
could be fairer? 

17a. Cf. Sophocles: Oedipus Tyrranus; i. 546: 
rovT avTO vvv tiov iroSiT aKovaov ws coco- 

18, Cf. Kikero; De Deorum Natura. 

45 



Who showed us the ways of the stars in the sky? 

Who, but the mind's deep-seeing eye?^® 

And whose was the mind but Man's? Aye, whose? 

Grant me this, you cannot refuse-'^ 

My main contention : that Song alone 

Is worth a thought that makes Man its own, 

Transmuting ages new and old 

To a splendid metal of human gold.^^ 



[19. Sir Edward Cholmondely tells me that this is 
the earliest reference known to the pineal gland, which, 
he says, has precisely those powers ascribed to it by 
OUR AUTHORITY.— 1^.] 

[20. After this masterly and stirring exposition of 
the scheme of the universe, who could refuse anything 
to OUR AUTHORITY?— n.] 

[21. Referring to the phrase human gold. Profes- 
sor Aloysius Seeley Smith, Ph.D., (Cornfield College 
and Gottingcn) has the following- highly instructive 
Note. — Professor Smith's Arbeit was undertaken in the 
high and arduous field of the Discourse : His Note 
reads : "This difficult passage has given me much la- 
bor, — but it has been a labor of love. Gold is an 
impersonal object, how then human? We receive no 
iielij from the context, for, if transmuted refers to 
gold, how are we to reconcile this with the indisputa- 
ble fact that at the period in which this Discourse was 
evidently composed, lead had not yet been transmuted 
into gold, and it seems certain, moreover, that radioac- 
tive knowledge was confined exclusively to the more 
daring of the Alchemists f [The italics are mine. — ^.1 
I think . . . therefore . . . that we have plainly 
before us here indisputable evidence that the text has 
suffered corruption at t!:e . . . careless hands of 
some . . . pretentious copyist or equally . . . 
unscrupulous editor. In this conclusion I am happy to 
have the invaluable support of that daring young 
French numismatist, M. Augustin Marie Josef An- 
toine Parapluie, who, with his brilliant Gallic insight, 
suggests for the two lines beginning Transmuting 
ages . . ., the following sparkling emendation : 

46 



So much for the larger aspects; now 
For our present application: how 
May this wonderful Whole reveal its parts 
In the secret workings of men's own hearts ? 
In what small hour is the Aoyos^^ expressed ; 
How is the eOo<s^-^ made manifest? 
Prince, as we know, throughout our Land 
Many subsist at your generous hand 



Stamped into official coin of the realm. 

The preservation of the metrically rhythmic qualities 
— which were so peculiar a part of the atmosphere of 
the Mittledlter — is quite noticeably good, and indeed, 
in all respects the proposed emendation is unexception- 
able.— A. S. S." 

This' Note has been translated from the original 
German of A. S. S.'s Inaugural-Dissertation zur 
Erlangung der philosophischen Doctorwurde bei der 
Georg-August-Universitdt zu Gottingen. 191 5; a 
work of an epoch-making character, — a true and 
lasting contribution to knowledge, — which all who 
have the welfare of Literature at heart are 
earnestly asked to assimilate. The title of the Dis- 
sertation may be Englished : On the Use and 
Abuse of Precious Metals in the Poetry and Crit- 
icism of the Earlier Middle Ages. 

Now, referring to my italicized passage (supra), 
it is evident that M. Parapluie's emendation, ar- 
resting as it is, is unnecessary. A man of OUR 
AUTHORITY'S universal range of knowledge 
would well know what even the most advanced 
Alchemists were up to; cf. Notes (16), (17), 
(19) ; or, we may easily settle A. S. S.'s difficulty 
on the well-proven hypothesis of Note (10), (b). 
— «.] 
22. Aovo? not to be confounded with its (debased) 
cognate-derivative logic which has no place in, and is 
an abomination to. Art. Cf. Note (4). 

22a. The Stagyrite, as usual, goes straight to the 
cor cordium of the vkn. 

47 



Alone, but a many more — for wealth 

Increases not thy Good Works' stealth^^ — 

Must starve and faint by very force 

Of circumstance, — 'tis Nature's course.^^^ 

Now, I believe in the might of Song 

To rend all shackles however strong; 

This is my faith and this my creed :^* — 

Through godlike Song shall Man be freed, ^*^ 

And Song shall bind the Oppressor in chains — 

The Oppressor Wealth whose blood-red gains 

Are Misery's tears and poverty's price, 

The fetid breath of starving vice. 

And the priceless gold of children's lives 

Sweated like felons in Labour's gyves. 

Pardon me, Prince, if I prophesy — 

When I think of these things my blood runs high :^° 



[23. It is gratifying to find OUR AUTHORITY lay- 
ing down this sound Principle of modern progressive 
Ecclesiastical Polity. He was a Socialist in the 
Christian, not in the degraded sense of this much 
abused term. — ^.] 

23a. Cf. Lucretius, De Rerum Natura. 

24. From Latin, credo. Cf. also, credulity. 

24a. May I be pardoned for detecting a likeness, a 
reminiscent similarity, between my own poor effort and 
the following well-known lines of Pindar? 
AviK avOpuyiriov KawartoSees otyovrot ixeomvai 
urnSeoiv e^co, TreAavet 8 Iv TroXvyovaoto ttXovtov 
7rdvT£<5 Lua veonev il/evSv ttoo? aKrdy 
6<s uikv dypr)iui(ovy d<l>veo<s TorCf toI 8 av rrXovTeovres • • • 
• • • ae^ovTOL (t>D£va<% djueAtvots to^oi? Sajnevre?- 

I do not, it will be noticed, advocate drunkenness as 
a means of liberation for the many ; such must always 
remain the high privilege of the few who in their Cups 
hear the cloven hoofs of the Satyrs. Pindar was right, 
water (cf. TreAavei) is meet and proper for the mob. 

25. It has been significantly noted by both Hip- 
pokrates and Aretaeus that high feeling superinduces 

48 



There shall leap from some pregnant time 
(Perchance not under our selfish clime) 
A Singer whose words are coals of flame; 
His Song shall consume with intolerable shame 
The hearts of those who deny their Lord, 
His eyes shall pierce as a terrible sword 
Sheer through their pride to the pity beneath 
Till all in torment cry out, 'resheath. 
Avenger of Man your most just ire. 
Pluck out from our souls your awful fire, 
We burn and perish; O Wrath, relent! 
Our hearts are ashes and we repent.' 
Then shall the empty be filled and cheered, 
And they who have smugly sat and sneered 
At each poor hope these wretches hugged. 
Shall depart from the Feast, their dead souls drug- 
ged 
With the stale last drops of their lives' false wine 

Only Song^^^ like this is divine, 



an accelerated pulse. The priority in this important 
physiological discovery would seem to rest with Hip- 
pokrates, altho' Aretaeus nowhere refers to him. 

[Possibly the observation was made by the two 
men independently of each other, but this is a ques- 
tion which can be answered (if at all) only upon much 
further research. May I take the liberty of calling 
the attention of our leading Hellenists to this difficult 
enquiry? — It would form an admirable piece of work 
to put before the more brilliant candidates for the 
Doctorate. — fi.] 

Possibly I misunderstand the question, and under- 
estimate the difficulty of attack, but as a layman, I 
offer the suggestion that chronology may have some- 
thing to do with it. /. T. 

25a. Cf . Bacchylides : Dithyramboi : XVIII, 37-39. 
lnoi ix\v ovv 
d(j<i>a\e(TTaTOv d ttoos eayar oima 

49 



Song that comforts the humble and meek. 
Pardon, Prince, if I seem to speak 
More of these things than of him who sang, 
I could not restrain it, — the Truth just sprang 
Forth from my lips like a lion.-*^ Now, let us re- 
sume," 
Here he cast a glance round the drows)'' room,^®^ 
"What of all this has our Singer said? 
Has a single word of his comforted 
That scullion-^ yonder? Well, who knows? 



26. Cf. the vulgarism Murder will out. 

[In view of the events subsequent to OUR AU- 
THORITY'S Discourse, this Note of his has a peculiar 
— almost prophetic — significance. It is but another in- 
stance of his unparalleled powers of Anticipation. — fi.] 

[26a. In the justifiable, if somewhat coarse words 
of the Chronicles: Although he spoke right lustily there 
Tx'cre many who slumbered and slept like swine. — fi.] 

27. Some will no doubt misunderstand* this part of 
my Discourse. These will accuse me of erecting a 
man of straw in order but to demolish him. Perhaps 
my scullion,^ in the last anah-sis, is a man of straw, 
a mere lay-figure as it were. In any event, he served 
my immediate purpose admirablv enough. 

[*I. for one. do not. OUR AUTHORITY never 
indulges in this reprehensible practice, so common 
in our own times. — a practice which is inevitably in 
doubtful taste.— ^.] 

For once I disagree with m}'- Friend. It does 
seem to me that OUR AUTHORITY'S assump- 
tions in regard to the scullion's feelings are unjusti- 
fiable, and that he has. this once. 3-ielded to the 
seductive weakness. — so prevalent, as my Friend 
remarks, in certain newer phases of Art. — of set- 
ting up a straw-man just for the fun of seeing him 
blown to bits. But. after all. it is not such a 
serious matter, and we may forgive OUR AU- 
THORITY his little joke, which he will have in 
spite of his high purpose. /. T. 
t[An interesting side-light. It would appear that 
there actually was one scullion present. — ^.] 

50 



Not you, wise Prince, I may suppose, 
Nor I ; yet, for argument 
I'll imagine the scullion's more content 
Then he was, let us say, an hour ago. 
And what but rebellion's angry glow 
Flushes his cheeks with unwonted red? 
Who put wild thoughts in his foolish head? 
Who, but the Singer? perverting this youth 
With spurious gold of fair untruth, 
Showing him wonders beyond his ken,^^^ 
Teaching him stars are greater than men — 
Or that men and the stars are all of a piece? 
When will such damnable doctrine cease 
Its insidious whispering to our youth? 
Freedom of utterance ! license, forsooth 
Must disport its indecencies under that flag. 
For the old beliefs he flings us a rag, 
Saying, 'This my Lords is your proper cloak' !^^ 



27a. Cf. Sophocles ; I.e. ; 527 : 
vvSaTO txev rdS » otSa cr ov yvto/x7y tlvl 

[28. This is one of the most famous of the cruces 
in the Discourse. Volumes have been written upon it 
to no avail, and the battle yet rages stubbornly around 
this Salient of Eternity. In spite of Professor Fat- 
kopft's lifework upon this point, it yet remains as 
much of a mystery as ever how a rag could become a 
cloak. The reverse is, of course, obvious. Now I do 
not wish to be considered as rushing in where greater 
feet than mine can ever be, have trod, but may I sug- 
gest, — just suggest, no more — that we have here one 
of those two frequent transpositions which the copy- 
ists of Mediaeval manuscripts were so prone to make? 
--OUR AUTHORITY'S personal copy of the Dis- 
course is, unfortunately, mutilated at this passage. — 
If, as I suggest, we transpose rag and cloak, the diffi- 
culty vanishes. Some color is lent to this theory by 
the fact that, in OUR AUTHORITY'S time, cloak was 
pronounced clag, and rag was pronounced roke. But, 

51 



I ask you, Prince, should this provoke 

Our condemnation, -or should it not? 

The very thought makes my wrath run hot.^^* 

Thus I come to the core of the thing: 

It matters not how one may sing 

Provided only his words uphold 

That which our Fathers held of old,^® 

Or, if he must reform, — or complain — 

Let all his measures be soundly sane.^^ 



I repeat, this is merely a suggestion. May we hope 
that Professor Fish will allow his powerful intellect to 
play upon this crux when he has dissolved the runa- 
way eyes? — fi.] 

28a. Cf. Note 25. This condition is, I believe, pe- 
culiar to myself. Nowhere in Galenus, Hippokrates or 
Aretaeus do I find the slightest mention of any similar 

[29. Is OUR AUTHORITY anticipating that stir- 
ring old hymn which has softened so many a stub- 
born heart to tears? — 

"Faith of our Fathers, strong to save" . . ., — fi.] 
30. Cf. Mens sana, sano in corpore. I have suc- 
ceeded in tracing this profound axiom of conviviality 
to Kwang tse fu, who gives it in the slightly different 
form : 

i-g 

[An eminent Sinicaist informs me that the Chinese 
in this Note is irreproachable. OUR AUTHORITY 
was indeed a Scholar ! — fi.] 

[Touching this Note, I disregard as trivial the sug- 

52 



Be he right or wrong is not the point, 
But this throwing of Custom out of joint^^ 
Is a damnable thing; that State shall live 
Which is broadly and wisely conservative.^^^ — 
To sum^^*' up this Singer: he satisfies 



gestion offered by Tonkins Saratoga Grant, A. B., 
Dean of the Graduate School at the University of Char- 
go, that we have here strong ~internal evidence that 
OUR AUTHORITY patronized a Chinese Laundry. 
Marco Polo had not yet discovered the Northwest Pas- 
sage, so how could OUR AUTHORITY have made the 
necessary arrangements for transportation? — 0.] 

31. Cf. My Note 3. I would hardly venture to sug- 
gest, without further research, that OUR AUTHORI- 
TY, and neither Francis, Lord Bacon, nor Queen Eliz- 
abeth, wrote Hamlet, but, I have my suspicions. These 
are greatly strengthened by the obvious observation 
that OUR AUTHORITY, is trying to set his Age 
right. — fi.] 

31a. Cf. media via; — golden mean. 

[31b. Being happily ignorant of Science in all its 
branches, this utterance of OUR AUTHORITY long 
baffled me. Much against my better impulse and emo- 
tion, I consulted Georg Sanger, the notorious Teutonic 
mathematician. In a rather sneering tone he said : 
"Ein Teufel!" when I showed the passage in the Dis- 
course. Asked to explain, he continued : "Your AU- 
THORITY speaks of the sum of the parts and leaves 
you to infer with Eukleides von Berlin und Alexandria 
that this is equal to the whole, which he indeed stated 
to be the case invariably. The assertion is true only 
of finite assemblages. Now, it was rigorously proved 
by the Scholastics as early as 1066, that the power 
(mdchtigkeit) of the Angels is infinite, and that the 
power of any fiend is transfinite, — or, if you prefer, in 
the sub-case under consideration, infinite, — when and 
only when that fiend coincides with, (or can be put in 
one-one correspondence with) the Devil himself. Hence, 
as I stated, the Singer was a devil." — The proof is lucid, 
and is but another proof of OUR AUTHORITY'S 
universal learning. — ^.] 

33 



None; throws dust^^° in humble eyes, 
Till he who was honest as common sod 
Thinking he knows his kinship to God,^^*^ 
Moults off his decent plumage^^® to preen 
Like a peacock-fooP^ ^^^ in lendings obscene 



Herr Sanger has overlooked (purposely, no doubt) 
the trivial case, — that of men, whose power is also said 
to be finite. /. T. 

31C. Dust; cf. St one -blind; dry as dust. I quaffed 
three tankards over this phrase, throws dust. Long did 
I hesitate between mustard-seed and gravel, until a 
happy inspiration filled my mind with the divine afflatus, 
and I sighed dust! — the golden section, the sublime 
mean. I note these facts in no vain spirit of boastful- 
ness, but in order that young Scholars may not despair 
if occasionally the coy Aphrodite prefers the chaste 
seclusion of great Jove's head to the wide ocean of 
Truth and Poetical Expression, if not infrequently the 
Muse must be delivered as was the mother of the 
greatest of the Caesars, if, I say, untried virgins in the 
holy matrimony of Learning shrink in dismay from the 
fulfillment of their sublime destiny, let such take com- 
fort in the contemplation of this joyous child of my 
mind whose rosy young life cost me untold pangs of 
parturition, — pangs which I forgot in the supreme mo- 
ment of achieved fatherhood. Only by such descents 
into the Valley of the Shadow can that lasting air of 
inevitability be summoned to life. 

3 id. All men are related, — more or less distantly, it 
is true, — ^to God, but I am here speaking of an insidious- 
ly intimate democratisation which, in some cases, comes 
dangerously near begetting a contempt. It is this against 
which my voice is raised in reverential protest. 

3ie. That is, deliberately plucks from his own shoul- 
ders the first downy intimations of angelic parentage. 

32. Those who confound this bird with the peahen, 
which, as the merest tyro knows is the female of the 
genus Pavo, have grossly misunderstood the Treatise 
of Aristotles upon Taw?. The two are in no essential 
way related. 

[32a. Peacock-fool, In this flashing phrase, we have 

54 



This 'singer' sheds. Shall Freedom reign? 

Verily, slavery is vain;^^ 

But we, who protect the People's mind 

Must not suffer his lawless kind — 

The Vagrant^* Singers — to instigate 

Disbelief and unreasoning hate; 

This man is a stranger in Heaven's high courts, 

He scorns the beliefs our State supports. 

His theory of God is a heresy 

And his judgment of Life rank blasphemy. 

Were I your Highness, he should kiss^^ the rod 



an anticipation of the Paulo-Post-Futurists, the Sym- 
bolists, and the Cubists by OUR AUTHORITY. From 
his simile it is apparent that foolishness is, in colour, 
a dull blue. The Rev. D. Proudflesh, Prebendary of 
Toadcaster, informs me that heresy is a somewhat 
more violent shade of the same hue, — which it will be 
extremely illuminating to remember in following the 
course of events subsequent to the Discourse, espe- 
cially when it is mentioned by one chronicler that the 
Prince's cloak was blue. This accounts for much. 
Rev. Proudflesh adds also : "As represented by our 
more advanced thinkers in the pictorial Art, the riffled 
Sea, on a sunny day, is an irrepressible riot of schism 
and feathers."— f2.] 

33. [I cannot pass this over in silence. Had OUR 
AUTHORITY been with us in i860, the terrible blood- 
shed of the American Civil War might easily have been 
averted by his timely utterance of a truth which it cost 
the American People untold millions in blood and treas- 
ure to learn. Cf. OUR AUTHORITY'S beliefs con- 
cerning the power for good of Song (Disc.) — ^.] 

34. [The use of this word by OUR AUTHORITY 
shows conclusively that he was, in the highest sense of 
the word, a gentleman. That he was a scholar, we have 
already sufficiently seen. — fi.] 

35. I trust that none will misunderstand me : kiss 
the rod, but, post facto. Rods, where there is more 
than an intangible suspicion of false judgment, have a 

55 



And humbly before us acknowledge our God — 

A mere suggestion, — no offence, 

Your Highness knows my reverence. 

And last ; as to character, what is his ? 

Is he fit to tell us aught that Is? 

His private life is his own concern — 

We need it not in order to learn 

That, which for Judges, is relevant: 

What we do not know we may invent^^ — 



far nobler end than a supine submission to the lewd 
and lascivious embraces of the unrighteous, 

36. Lest the unscholarly should, in their darkness, 
impute to me a dishonesty only less black than was his 
who sang, let me remark, that here, as ever, I use words 
in their true etymological significance. Invent is from 
the Latin invenire, which is, in the vulgar tongue, to 
come upon, to discover, to uncover, to infer, to lay bare 
that which is hidden, to show up deceit, to unmask 
falsehood, to do justice to truth, to punish hypocrisy, 
to give even the Devil his due, to be harsh toward 
none and charitably just to all, to palliate irrelevant 
peccadilloes of youth or inexperience, and to glorify 
and exalt those things in the life, character and work 
of a man which are of permanent good and enduring 
worth in the sight of Him to Whom a cup of water of- 
fered to the thirsty is a greater thing than the Temple 
with all its gold and burnt offerings. It is in these 
larger senses that I use the word invent, and, in drawing 
my conclusions, I rely solely upon the irrefragible 
Principle of Internal Evidence. Is it upon my head if 
the evidence be infernalf Justice is not mawkish sen- 
timentality. 

[Who is not touched and deeply stirred by the firm 
manliness in OUR AUTHORITY'S tone and method of 
Judgment? Incidentally we have made a discovery of 
the very first magnitude in the History of Criticism. 
It was none other than OUR AUTHORITY who dis- 
covered the great and enduring foundation stone of 
criticism which he reveals to us with so much can- 
dour and skill, and which has, in comparatively re- 

36 



From the song itself. He stands confessed 

To stores of knowledge he never possessed, — 

The blackest dishonesty, I submit; 

So too, the licentiousness of his wit, — 

In his song is no High Seriousness,^^ 

His foul lips^'^ curse when they should bless, 

Nothing is sacred from his sneer 

Till his meanest words wear an evil leer; 

For all that is holy, irreverence. 

For all red-rotten, his quick defence; 

His heart is dead and his soul is sick, 

His show of love^"^ but a gaudy trick — 

His attacks on straws^* are passing bold 

But our burning issues leave him cold f^^ 



cent times crushed with conspicuous success such ar- 
rant pretenders as John Keats, Lord Byron, Percy 
Bysshe Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe, Oscar Wilde**'*' and 
a host of less widely unsavory imposters. It is estab- 
lished once for all by OUR AUTHORITY that it is 
quite unnecessary to rake up a man's private life in 
order to learn the truth of what even the most un- 
righteous of men has contributed to Art. — fi.] 

***[Cf. also my Note 42 and the accompanying 
Text of the Discourse. — ^.] 
S7. Gk. (X7rovBa2o<i- 

37a. Who can say of any part of this man's mouth : 
avv 8 a\aOeia Bdotcov 
KaXXiaTOVf eLTreo kol Odvr} ti?» 

ActTTcrat Movcrav dva/cAeirav aOvoua^ 

[Bacchylides: Epinikoi VIII; 85-88.] 

37b. Caricature is not Art. Cf. Note 4. 

38. The few lay-figures that strut through his song 
are mere men of straw. Cf . my note 27. 

38a. A too precious carping at trifles is neither 
Song, Reform, nor Art. Fault-finding, for the mere 
sake of fault-finding, is a damnable practice. — Some 
days after I had delivered myself of the present judg- 
ment, an impudent carle had the effrontery to tell me 
that the purpose of the song was simply "to tell a good 

57 



In his manner of^^^ singing lies the key 
To his whole perverted falsity: 



yarn" — whatever "yarn" means, — it sounds Chaldean, 
but is not. I asked him (for I thoroughly believe in 
showing the ignorant the grosser errors of their ways) 
what moral benefit he had derived from the "yarn." 
His reply, which was of a piece with his low nature, 
was as follows : ". . . rot your morals." Although 
this did not answer my question, yet I had learned that 
which I sought to know : The singer had not sung in 
such a manner that any derived a moral benefit from 
his song. The business of Song is not to sing; what is 
the business of Song may be learned from my Dis- 
course. That which is not moral is immoral. Art 
which is immoral is not Art — if I may be pardoned a 
paradox. I ask now, is that man who "tells 'yarns' " 
moral ? Why did this singer tell a 'yarn' ? 

38b. This imposter, has, as it were, a seraglio of 
notes to which he is constant and in all respects faith- 
ful, — but with the unswerving constancy of impotence. 
His musical phrases, in the majority of instances, are 
but indifferently suited to their localities ; and, although 
I need scarcely burden scholars and delicate lovers of 
great Song with the intricacies of my rigorous demon- 
stration, nevertheless I have succeeded in proving that 
his so-called "song" could be spoken backwards, and 
that in the process it would lose nothing, — indeed, I 
hold that it would materially gain. He has almost no 
inevitable happiness of diction. He may startle us and 
deliquesce, but does his voice ever thrill us? Cer- 
tainly he has not thrilled me. He does not draw upon 
the divine ether, but fills his lungs with the commoner 
atmosphere of sounds which when intoned through the 
nasal labyrinth is now and then sneezed forth in an 
intensity of effect which I find is almost as if by magic 
but never, perhaps, magical. His atmosphere is one 
disgusting odour of objects and sensations, emotions 
of beauty or pleasure, but inhaled and outwardly pro- 
pelled without discrimination. His melody lacks logic; 
frequently a cadence is suggested, not by the first figure 
of the syllogism, but by merely the hiss of the chimes 
in the accumulated exuberance of his diffusive ca- 

58 



His voice is harsh, execution coarse,^^ 

His longer flights mere tours de force/^ 

His song conceals the actual man*^ — 

In brief, he is merely a charlatan. 

Hence, as in the man there is nothing to praise,*^ 



cophony. No single phrase in his music has any mean- 
ing, I find ; and I would defy the most astute Judge 
to discern in a single breath anywhere in his song 
a particle of evidence upon which could be based a 
proof of the indubitable fact that any two sides of a 
triangle are together greater than the third side. As 
this theorem is true, his "song" must be false. But 
from this we cannot infer that the "song" implies the 
theorem. We could lose the "song" without loss. 

[I am glad to call attention to OUR AUTHORITY'S 
anticipation of one of the most modern collections of 
canons of judgment. Indeed the above Note of his has 
been plagiarized almost bodily in reference to a re- 
cently-deceased soi-disant singer. — ^.] 

39. Who, in listening to this man propel disgusting 
noises from his thorax to his larynx could truly say 
those magic words which are the seal of all great Song 
nobly sung : le sue limpide note sgorgarono della sua 
qola? 

40. Not to be confused with towers of strength. 

41. Song that does not reveal to every listener the 
full personality of the Singer, is a voice crying in the 
Wilderness, a lie, a snare to our feet and a canard 
to our souls. We have a right to know, not only the 
Singer's politics, his religion and his views upon di- 
vorce, but also for whom he voted for Poundmaster, 
the duration of his prayers and the Personage to whom 
they are addressed, and the number of his wives (or if 
not married, mistresses), dead or living. Unless his 
Song reveals these all-important facts, how is Judgment 
to perform its proper function, and how are we to 
know whether or not a so-called 'Song' is worthy of 
our hearing? 

42. [If the great Corner Stone of Judgment has al- 
ready been so firmly based by OUR AUTHORITY, 
surely, he has here placed the Golden Cross upon the 
topmost pinnacle of that lofty Temple of Justice. — fi.] 

59 



I*^ move you, Prince, we withold the bays." 



43. [Herr Judas Iskariot Schwindler, the doyen of 
Higher Critics, and Eminent Authority on Purgatorial 
Exegesis, with characteristic incisiveness, doubts the 
historicity of OUR AUTHORITY. In Herr Schwind- 
ler's opinion, the Discourse, as well as OUR AUTHOR- 
ITY, is a mere fabrication of some over-zealous apos- 
tate. He argues long and well, that such a combination 
of excellences as is exhibited by OUR AUTHORITY, 
is beyond the limbo of fallible human potentialities. — 
To this let me reply: humanly speaking, Yes! — but 
you forget that OUR AUTHORITY was human only 
by courtesy. Some, no doubt, of your readers, my dear 
T.J will share the skepticism of Herr Schwindler. In 
the interests of a despondent and overburdened hu- 
manity, may I presume to ofifer these doubting Thom- 
ases a ray of light and comfort in the form of incon- 
trovertible evidence that OUR AUTHORITY was, in 
all probability — permit me to state this more strongly — 
beyond the breath of a suspicion — a historical person- 
age? As you know, my dear T., my life-work has been 
the compilation of a Directory, of the Names, Ad- 
dresses, and Characteristics of Eminent Living Au- 
thorities, with brief Biographies, Bibliographies, Per- 
sonalia, Favorite Pastimes and Opinions upon all mat- 
ters, {including Microbiology, the Differential Calculus, 
Woman-Suffrage, Temperance, the Immortality of the 
Soul, and Obstetrics,) together with a succinct statement 
of their more important Achievements in Scholarship, 
Compilation, After-Dinner Speaking, Art and Practice 
of Criticism, Morals, Millinery Art, Theology, History, 
Oratory, Drynursing , Culture, Agriculture, Dressmak- 
ing, War, Diplomacy , Hell, Politics, Pandering, Sew- 
age-Disposal, Toad-Eating, Eugenics, Boot-Licking, etc., 
etc., etc., and Circle-Squaring {or Science) ; the ready- 
reference title of all being : 

WHO WOULD BE WHO 

IF 

HE ONLY 

COULD. 

The names of the 75,000 Most Eminent Authorities in 

each of the several fields of Human Endeavor are print- 

60 



The Prince** thought long, nor silence broke. 



ed in Large Roman Capitals of 24 carat gold, and, by 
corresponding and appropriate gradations of Emi- 
nence, Illumination, Type, and Ink, the last class, which 
in each case consists of a single name, that of the 
least eminent authority in any particular field, is reach- 
ed, and is printed from diamond-point italics in water 
which has been distilled thrice. I will be only too glad 
to send a copy of this work to any of your readers 
who may desire it, and who will enclose with their 
request postage sufficient for three and a half tons of 
second-class matter. — fi.] 

(My Friend's kind ofifer is gratefully accepted. /. T.) 
[44. In Bringing to a close these Notes, I feel that 
it may not be out of place to say a word or two regard- 
ing this person, and to ofifer you, my dear T., a few 
hints of advice regarding your intended handling of 
the material in the chronicles, regarding him. First ; he 
was no gentleman, his speech is sufficient to tell us this. 
Second; his cloak was blue (see my Note 32a). Third; 
his character is inconsistent : in replying to OUR AU- 
THORITY he draws his similes from the animal king- 
dom, and confuses sus (a boar) with serpens (a craw- 
ler). This, I think is a clear enough clue to the 
duplicity and falseness of his character. Now for the 
advice : The language which the Prince uses is not 
only blasphemous occasionally, but is, what is worse, 
invariably coarse. And upon no provocation, my dear 
T. Therefore, unless you would deliberately oflfend 
artistic sensibilities, soften it, my dear boy, soften it. 
With this I close ; — Good Luck, and God bless you ! 

I have followed my Friend's wise and kind advice 
in regard to the Prince and his utterances. Indeed, the 
extreme coarseness of his language more than once 
brought an ashamed blush to my cheek, — and I am no 
pullet, if a personal reference is pardonable. Both in 
the spirit and in the letter I have "toned down" the 
Prince until there is nothing in either his words or 
actions which will oflfend the most susceptible of our 
somewhat ticklish modern tastes, — until, indeed, his 
own friends, or the readers of the chronicles in all 

61 



Then, with a start the sleepers*^ awoke 
As the Prince's voice rang fast and loud : 

"Listen! you stud-boar of the crowd! 
Grief is too bitter to sing about, 
Can a man's weak voice cast devils out? 
Go! 'scullion yonder,' if you will, 
Prepare this man his proper fill: 
Bring hither a steaming savory mess, 
Gorge his gigantic emptiness 
With cabbage and carrots, pork and bran — 
All that bloats the soddenest man 
Or brute ! Great Judge ! this once at least 
Shall your hungering soul guzzle a feast. 
Like many who teach in Life's hard school 
You speak much wisdom, — but you are a fool! 
'And what of the Common Man?' you ask. 
I have listened to you, — no 'common' task — 
Year after year; have heard you preach 
To these 'common men' in outlandish speech 
Garnished with everything under the Sun 
But our homelike tongue — the only one 
These understand. Your 'taste' intrudes 
On harmless enjoyment with platitudes 
Stale as your dull mind's luke-warm stew 
Of other minds, till we turn 'and spew 
Thee out of our mouths' — a garbled text 



their unexpurgated glory (if that is the proper word), 
would no longer recognize him. I imagine, that in the 
new suit I have given him, his acquaintance, the Singer, 
would mistake him for the Judge — he of the Discourse. 
And now, I too, with my Friend, leave off these notes, 
and hand you, indulgent Reader, over to the tenderer 
mercies of the chronicles : Good Luck, and God bless 
you! J. T. 

[45. Cf. Note 26.— fi.] 

62 



To put with those others your tongue annexed 
And pawned for applause. What man is able 
To swallow and hold the Tower of Babel? 
With your bits of Latin and scraps of Greek, 
Guttural German, Italian squeak, 
Hebrew, Sanskrit, Chinese, Dutch 
You 'strive after quality overmuch'; 
Your French aesthetics are 'too intense' ; 
Your Assyrian rubbish 'obscures the sense' 
You have — if any, as smoke dulls glass: 
In our Mother Tongue, you are an ass! . . . 
'He should analyse Life.' — Be more precise. 
Gods or maggots, men or lice — 
All these have life, — 'a slice of the Vast' 
You gabble about. — For ten years past — 
Your whole long life for aught I know — 
Have you sat at a table, your face aglow 
With wine and food and windy speech 
Mouthing of heavens beyond your reach, 
Grunting of love for our 'fellow-men,' — 
But your selfish soul is a stinking pen. 
Had you ever a mistress? Who loved you? 
What do you know of things men do 
When they love like gods, or manlike, hate 
With a hate that is hell's own teeming mate? 
Have you felt the primal curse on your head. 
Sweating in vain for your daily bread ? 
When went you down to the sea in ships. 
Know you the kiss of brine on the lips ? . . . 
Our kind University hatched you out — 
How could she know what she was about, 
Your evil egg was white as the rest 
Where a serpent had slimed you ofif in the nest. 
And you squirmed your trail on flattery. 
Fawning hands and servile knee, 

63 



Adroit damnation and oily praise 

To be Arbiter of the Singers' Bays. 

Though I love you little, I hate you less : 

I know your unctuous righteousness, 

All these years have I watched you reek 

Virtue and goodness. You thought me weak, — 

'He shall do my will and call It his own.' 

If my flesh Is clay, my heart Is a stone! 

I have smelt you oozing at every pore 

Rotten as vice to your rottener core, 

But your holy oils shall soften me not, 

You have judged yourself and you shall rot. 

'Song should comfort the lowly and meek, 

Nor deny Itself to those who seek' ; 

You have said It. Sing! 'The fortunate 

Should share with them of low estate;' 

I know your belly Is lined with beef, 

That thence you judge Is my belief: 

Misery hides Its wretched rags 

While well-fed pity struts and brags; 

If your love for poverty Is so great 

Exchange for It your present state: 

Beg for your bread at brazen doors, 

Mingle with lepers and wash their sores. 

Share with a wretcheder your last crust, 

Believe in your heart 'My God is just,' 

Then, If you can cry from the depths of the mire 

'Men shall be cleansed by Song's pure fire,' 

I will be ashamed and abdicate, 

Your own true heart shall rule the State. 

Eat, and depart! Come not again 

Till your song has eased one wretch's pain." 

Nought said the Judge ; though he opened his mouth 
jHis tongue shrivelled up with a curious drouth 

64 ' 



As he gasped like a fish on a pebbly beach, 

And the Prince sat down — ^he had finished his speech. 

Then a laugh rippled round the Silver Hall — 
They seemed amused at a fellow-man's fall; 
The laugh surged high in a rising gust 
Till the rafters trembled and shook down dust, 
And shrill above all a cackle screeched, 

"Let him practise now what he always preached!" — 

This from the Graybeards; many a score 

Was wiped out clean in that bitter roar. 

All laughed but four: the sobered Prince 

Turning, saw the Singpr wince, 

(He had made no sign through the long Discourse,) 

These two sat mute till the crowd grew hoarse 

And ceased from very weariness. 

Then, putting by his own distress, 

The Singer smiled his magic smile 

So all felt foolish, nowise vile 

As a lesser man had made them feel. 

And he said: 

''Well, at last that's something real! 
Prince, I thought you liked my tune, 
If so, I make bold to crave a boon ; 
For the pleasure had, let this wise man 
Be as he was ere I began — 
Next to your heart. He means no harm, 
Indeed his ways have a certain charm ; 
His heart is stout though his ears are long 
And he'd rather preach than hear a song — 
But at bottom he's truly a likeable sort; 
Come, let us forget, and on with the sport!" 

65 



"Granted!" 

the Prince cried; 

"golden rules 
Are broad enough to embrace all fools, 
And I'm the fool! — that I ever thought 
A man would live the things he's taught! 
We are most of us rotten in some sore spot! 
But all in all v^^e're a jolly lot — 
Take that dish avv^ay!" — 

and the scullion jumped 
So nervously that he promptly dumped 
The steaming mess at the Judge's feet — 
And fled. There w^as no attempt to eat 
On the Judge's part, — his appetite 
Never yearned for such gross delight — 
Was otherwise satisfied, perchance. 
But a mangy cur with a thievish glance 
Slunk past the throne and greedily lapped 
The cooler gruel. Then the red Prince slapped 
The unfortunate beast, as he strode from the throne 

"Must you make a fool of me? Drop that bone! 
My temper's enough, you unlicked whelp" — 

So the scullion's dog too fled, — with a yelp — 
And a bone. Thus the offering lay 
All through the night smoking away 
A fragrant reminder, but less and less 
As the kind hours brought forgetfulness. 

"Shall he sing for us?" 

No halting doubt 
Stayed the "Yea!" in their answering shout. 
Then one rose up, a feeble thegn. 
Bent and broken, brown with the stain 
Of many a summer and burning frost : 

66 



"I grieve right sorely my brother lost 
Your song just done of unfailing spring, 
So lest he lose a greater thing 
I pray you a little while belate 
This other song ; let all await 
Until I carry my brother here, — 
The bed he lies on must be his bier, 
His bitter years have made him mad 
And I would not have him die unglad." 

"Willingly," 

smiled the Singer: 

"he 
Is the man I missed to set me free ; 
I will go with you and carry him here," 
He paused and smiled; — 

"if a tale may cheer 
Your brother in his darkened hour. 
Perchance there are others this gentle power 
May help for a step along their way," 

And he glanced round the room; 

"if so, I pray 
Yon friends will fetch them to blow my flame." 
Then hurriedly rose a mother of shame: 
"My daughters delight in a pleasing tale," 

And she left the Hall. A sweet nun, pale 
From nights' long vigils of sleepless prayer. 
Saying, 

"I had a sister once, how fair 
Was she!" 

stole into the dark. So all. 
Save some priests and judges left the Hall; 
Even the graybeard judges went, 

67 



And the Prince himself in huge content 
Found his scullion under a pot 
Bewailing the woes of a scullion's lot. 

Back by twos and threes they came, 
Sound hands leading the blind and lame, 
Misery leaning on lust's left* arm. 
Toothless age and youth's fresh charm. 
The good and the bad, the sweet and the sour. 
Smiling wisdom and pedantry dour, 
Flowers and weeds, silks and rags. 
Laughing maidens and mumbling hags. 
Scoffers at God, long-suffering priests, 
Thoughtful brows and foreheads of beasts, 
Expectant eyes and close lips grim — 
For some who had heard still doubted him. 
All these came, and a many more 
Streamed like leaves through the Silver Door. 

Last of all the great Judge came. 
With him two men of mighty fame, — 
Expounder of God and the People's Belief, 
Priesthood's Head and Earthly Chief 
Was he who towered supreme, august 
Above the human din and dust; 
Only less austere than he 
The second strode, sagacity 
Cold-tempered with authority 
Gleamed from his eyes like beaten steel — 
This man might know but could not feel. 
A Sage from the University said : 

"Look, brothers! even all wisdom's Head 



*0n his right was Joy. — Chronicles. 

68 



Is come! what will he think of it? 
Stand up! stand up until he sit!" . . . 

"Once more expectant silence fell, 
Once more pealed out the golden bell, 
More mellowly, more meaningly. 
At last the Singer's soul went free," 

So one has told who heard it all; 

"Oh, might my earthy tongue recall 
The magic of his melody 
I could unlock the mystery 
In yon dumb stone," 

he told the seers 
Who doubted him in afteryears: 

"You seek for things beneath your hand. 

Beholding all, misunderstand 

What never eyes beheld, or tongue 

Has uttered; all these things were sung 

Within the echoing mind alone. 

Each eager soul received its own: 

The halt and maimed were gently healed 

And sightless inner eyes unsealed ; 

Another sense he gave mankind, 

A comprehension of the mind — 

The light of day ere dawn appears. 

So men reached out and touched the years 

Of shrivelled time with airy hands 

And felt the rock where being stands 

Foursquare to eternity. 

As a wisp, Immensity 

Shrank before their eyes, a dream 

With all its stars, passed out, a gleam 

69 



Athwart an everlasting night. 

As might a god's electric sight 

Pierce through the hazy veils of sense 

That shroud all dreams with dreams more dense, 

Their never-sleeping eyes beheld 

Space reflux its subtle weld: 

The near, immeasurably far 

Flowed outward, star by vaster star 

Swelled from an atom's embryo. 

And orbs, majestically slow 

Moved in mazy wanderings 

Around the hidden Pole of things. 

With ever-living minds they saw 

The Mind of minds, and felt no awe, 

Coaeval eyes withstood one gaze 

All-seeing, fell not in amaze 

Before their self created Sun 

Their boundless vision made all one." 

So told this man; a seer was he. 
Who wrote: 

"Our eyes shall never see 
The smile light up such lips again, 
No years recall the full refrain 
That echoed through his marvel's thing, — 
His Song went past remembering. . . . 
But let my well-spent years atone 
My bitter deed, the single stone 
I cast in momentary rage 
Of madness . . . read my curious page 
Who will; perchance in your own mind 
Abides that chord his Song designed 
Ere your far year forseen was born, — 
Awaiting still the primal morn 
To breathe upon the muted thing 

70 



Once more, so your own lips may sing 

Responsive harmonies, and claim 

A starry kindred in his name — 

Forgotten long before your time 

Though all the winds of heaven chime 

Remembered echoes of him still 

Around the suns, and ever will 

Until he is no more. . . . He told 

So many things! one note, pure gold 

Made all seem one, not narrowly 

But large in rich diversity 

Forever new; his whole song showed 

All men its marvel, slowly glowed 

In soul made tangible, for all 

Made fire. He sang the great and small, 

Far dreams, and secret things most near. 

Men's years and time's unresting sphere, 

The heart's most human fortitude 

In death, so all men understood, 

And new heavens dawned on weary eyes 

That never saw the midnight skies 

For weariness; the humblest man 

Awoke and learned his mind might scan 

The universe about, within, — 

That his unaging soul might win 

A purity beyond decay 

In realms where death's unmeaning sway 

Has never kinged it over all : 

One thing endures though heavens fall. 

Though all men perish, this shall last. 

Though death looms vast this is more vast, — 

This thing he showed all men, with sense 

Not of their flesh, with reverence 

Not of their gods. ... A moment seen 

And felt ere blackness strode between 

71 



Iriieir other eyes and them, the Dawn 

An instant flared, and lo! 'twas gone. . . ." 

Obscure the writing now, a tear 
It seems, had fallen, — blotted here 
The prayer this ancient listener wrote, 
And then: 

"Though as with death he smote 
My heart, and burns my memory, 
My life has been his sanctuary; 
Yea, all these years I've lived for him 
Alone, nor vainly; tears bedim 
My withered eyes, remembering 
My Master and my living King. . . . 
Here seek and find the gathered strays 
Of all his Song, O distant days 
I shall not see and would not know; 
These have I gleaned with labour slow, — 
A lifetime's penitence, — my yield, 
How meagre! from the azure field 
He sowed with fire. . . . All hearts he stirred, 
From this I culled a loving word, 
From that, a smile, from all, much doubt, 
For when he ceased their hope went out : 
Receive the fragrance of these flowers ♦ 

And dream of him ; the blooms were ours." 

So, poring on his blackened scroll 
Some find the breath of many a soul 
A moment fixed elusively: 
Thus, one old carle, 

"he set me free," 
This thing alone sufficed him. 

"Nay, 
He chided not ; a child at play 

72 



Was not so blithe as he, so wise,' 
One said in innocent surprise. 
From one who died a famous queen: 
"^He made my very body clean." 

Another laughed: 

"Before his flame 
I gloried in my ruddy shame 
And bathed in warmth your hell denies 
My like; go, patient fool, devise 
A chillier heart to damn us in. 
Your cold God's mercy is a sin." 

And some kept dreams of revelry 
Alilt to vinous minstrelsy, 
Their memory of all they heard: 

"He filled us with a single word, 
His lightest smile brought wine and meat. 
His kindly presence gave us heat 
And we were cheered; alas, alas 
That misery lingers. Singers pass." 

"I would recall the gradual change 
That beat with rythm wild and strange 
Through haunting melodies afar. 
Through dreams of vine and riven star," 

Full many said in their last days: 

"He tuned us to a new amaze. 
Familiar things took shapes of fear; 
We saw a death-head's hideous leer 
Behind our friends' glad faces, felt 
Our bones fall down, and substance melt 

73 



In giddy air. With drowsy eyes 
We saw each other's slow surmise 
Rise up all tangible and real; 
We put forth groping hands to feel 
Their knowledge of ourselves, — recoiled, 
Our finger-tips besmirched and soiled 
With dissolution's rottenness; 
The shadowy vileness, less and less, 
Dissolved; it was a dream. A shock — 
Our bruised hands struck a living rock; 
The walls of some red citadel 
Towered strongly up from stronger hell : 
Around those flaming walls we sped, 
And as we ran we swiftly read 
From seething letters graved in flame 
Fierce legends of unending shame; 
We ran and read, we read and ran, 
'This fire consumeth every man,* 
We read, and swifter, ran sheer round 
The living wall's gigantic bound; 
'What is this wall?' a runner cried — 
*A flaming heart,' one laughed, and died. 
'What scarlet writing lives on it?' 
'The lying tale your false life writ 
For time eternal; read and live, 
The flame shall perish, not forgive,' 
Two men thus parleyed: 'what the stain 
That flickers there in endless pain?' 
'It is the curse of that first vine. 
The blood of things once held divine. 
Our own red drops are mingled there 
In ecstasies of fiendish prayer; 
These living letters ever write 
Forgiveness for the sins of night: — 
'Arise, and do what'er you will, 

74 



Of killing's lust take all your fill, 
Repentance pleases us well yet, 
We are the gods though our sun set 
Before your world was; we survive 
And shall forever; therefore strive 
Not to come over us, O men ; 
You smite us down, we rise again 
Tenfold renewed. Our temple stands, 
A crimson thing not built by hands — 
The human heart's eternal lust. , 
But one can hurl us to the dust. 
One might we do not know, but hate. 
One quenchless flame your minds create. . 
As from the tomb all men awoke; 
This direful vision fell, and broke 
In silence ; for the Song was done. . . . 
But over all rose a golden sun. 
The Singer's primal concord pealed 
Once more, and last, but unrevealed." 

Thus many told; but some denied 
The flaming heart: 

"These others lied ; 
Our word is truth: doubt grew to fear, 
Fear swelled to rage; intense and clear 
All heard their secret hearts reviled 
When the Singer ceased and calmly smiled 
Cold evil from his lips and eyes — 
A sneering insolence of lies 
Lit up his face and maddened us; 
His very hands were scandalous." 

So all their tellings disagree ; 
But some were healed of misery; 
And he whom the Singer had carried in 

75 



First testified not all was sin : 

The broken madman rose on his bed, 

Leaned on his elbow, serenely said: 

"I am sane. My devil has been cast out, 
And you are that Devil ! No more will I doubt 
Reason, and live by your word alone. 
Cleave to your evil, I purge my own." 

The madman shone like a holy seer; 
Astonishment swallowed their choking fear 
As the swift eyes followed his finger's lead 
Resting at last on Incarnate Creed — 
Expounder of God and the People's Belief, 
Priesthood's Head and Earthly Chief: 

"You denied me the right to live and think. 
Poisoned my food and cheering drink, 
With yaur hell beneath and heaven above 
Seduced my children from my love; 
In your cruel arms my sweet wife died — 
'Sundered forever,' the last she sighed — 
Mourning for me and my unbelief; 
Without your blight she had not known grief. 
But now I read your most secret thought: 
You have never believed the lies you taught . 
As one by one my children went, 
I said, 'he is death's instrument.' 
When the last and youngest died, I said : 
'He is indeed my ghostly Head, 
The Power is his. I believe his God 
Has chastened me with His merciful rod. 
Let me praise His mercy. My soul is glad !' 
In that same hour I went stark mad. . . . 
As an ox have I strained at your fiendish yoke, 

76 



My hope gave way and my manhood broke ; 
Under your threats and the rents of hell 
You ground me down and you ground me well. 
But a Singer has shown me how Men live, 
He has taught me to smile . . . who knows, 
forgive?" . . . 

The old thegn ceased with a happy sigh. 
All saw the madman gently die. 
But he who was Priesthood's earthly Head 
Sat white and still as the hour-long dead : 
His whole face froze in a marble stare 
And his hard eyes glowed an unearthly glare. 
As from the dead he slowly rose. 
Speaking three words: 

"The madman knows." 
He clutched at his throat and choked for breath : — 

"That was but his first quick death," 
He croaked, then yelled : 

"He is living yet!" 
There streamed from his face great pearls of sweat: 

"The madman's devil quitted its home 
To enter my soul — " 

then a frothing foam 
Fumed from his mouth. About the Hall 
Rang a mad confession: 

"He told not all: 
My life has been one long simony; 
I have nailed my God to a shameful tree. 
The things I preached were fiendish lies; — 
There is no worm that never dies, 
Eternal joy or unending pain. 
Hell is the stench frotti a maniac's brain — 

77 



No God, no Heaven. . . . My God! I feel 
The eternal fire! Those tongues are real! 
I am damned forever. ..." 

He snatched a knife. 
With a keen quick twist he cut his life. 

Long all gazed on the fallen man. 
As in a dream the Judge began: 

"What did I say? You bade him sing — 
Your infernal wish has had its fling. 
His Song is red with this nameless crime, 
I knew he would murder but bided my time — 
You would not listen. It serves you right!" 

Much more he declaimed that sounded trite 

By the silent thing in the candle-light. 

But this man had skill with the mind of a crowd, 

A-tremble with tears his voice swelled loud, 

He uttered "mother," "home," and "god," 

In accents to wring quick tears from a clod; 

"Our children," "Freedom!" "the minds of the 

young," 
Flowed or flashed from his silvery tongue; 
By a happy allusion to "childhood's years" 
Many were melted to easy tears; 
A deeper set of chords in his throat 
Brought righteous indignation's note 
Shaking with sobs and emotion suppressed. 
Then irony: "Is death a jest? 
Why does he smile who so falsely sang?" 

His eloquence rose to a wild harangue. 
For the mob swung with him; a baser sort 
Glared like beasts and their breath came short. 

78 



"Did you hear his contempt for all mankind 
Save the one or two who share his mind? 
He insulted you, made brutes of you, — 
You, the People! What will you do? 
Aye, how will you punish this atheist?" 

Like snakes in a den they writhed and hissed. 

"Avenge! just God, thy servant slain 
In thy defense; cleanse Thou the stain* 
From Man's high Altar!" 

The Prince stood up ; a 
Ere he could speak, a loving-cup 
Hurtled straight for the Singer's head. 
With a cry the Prince leaped in his stead — 
Too late; another received the crashing blow. 
The Singer's disciple, his face aglow. 
Crumpled and fell, brained, to the floor. 
Then burst on their ears a strangled roar 
As the Singer sprang at the Judge's throat — 

"Your life for his!" 

But a flat sword smote 
Him sprawling, powerless, full on his face. 
And a calm voice said: 

"Your first disgrace, 
You fool. Shall hell blaspheme your Song? 
When was wrong the answer to wrong?" 

Then the Prince resheathed his sword and raised 
The Singer up, blood-drunk, but dazed : 

"Listen, my People. My word is Law. 
Have I ever striven to overawe 

79 



Your opinion, as oft I might 
Have profited by inherent right — 
'Divine' you say? I better know — 
I rule because yoii would have it so. 
Who hides a secret grudge? — Be fair, 
Uncover your anger, let me share 
Your festering wrong, — it will melt away. 
Shall I lead you still?" 

They thundered, 

"Yea!" 
"I will lead you men down the paths of peace: 
I command your unthinking hatred cease. 
You shall fling no word and hurl no stone 
At him who sang. His life is my own, 
And he who harms a hair of this head 
That man I swear shall be struck dead. 
Ponder my word." 

A dumb surprise 
Rounded their mouths and wondering eyes; 
Then a whisper: 

"Heard you what he swore?" 

"He never uttered such words before," 
Another muttered. 

"I am not a beast; 
My arm is good as his sword at least," 
Snarled one whose brow was a straight black line ; 
And his mate set up a whimpering whine: 

"You men hang back while we women slave, 
I shall have no peace this side the grave; 
He swills and sings and lolls at ease 
And you men go down on your shaking knees 
At his lightest word. . . ." 

do 



So they girded him ; 
He caught not the words, but his face grew grim. 
As the tongues waxed bolder, the great Judge rose ; 

"Prince, we feel your Highness owes 

Your People justice for these deeds. 

Everj^ heart in our sad throng bleeds 

For the kind old shepherd who lies asleep 

Here in the midst of his faithful sheep — 

Slain by a wolf. . . . We loved him well ; 

He had much to give but nought to sell, 

His door stood open by day and night, 

He never took the widow's mite 

But gave her silver for bread and oil; 

He cheered the lowly and shared their toil. 

Housed the stranger, — gave up his bed 

To beggars. . . . Such a man lies dead 

Before your face, lies murdered there — 

And you cry 'peace!' " 

With a freezing stare 
The Prince said: 

*'Yea? Sublime! — if true. 
What else? What would you have me do?" 

Less assured, the Judge grew loud, 
Avoiding the stare he harangued the crowd: 

"Are you, the People, then so meek? 
Will you let this puling Singer wreak 
His spite on us that he is obscure? 
How long, how long must we endure 
Abuse from his foul mouth? We heard 
His vaunted song; all hearts were stirred — 
By love ? By reverence ? — By hate ! 

8i 



Only a fiend would desecrate 

The holy precincts of your hearts. 

What one of you but smarts — 

Tingling yet beneath his scourge? 

Who needs my humble tongue to urge 

His hand to justice? You are men! 

He called you swine, your land a den 

Of vipers. Yet, our Prince is just — 

We follow him because we must. 

How many shouted V^a!' but now? 

My own assent I disavow 

Unless he grant your law^ful claim 

To try this man in Freedom's name. 

You are the jury, you decide 

Whether one shall trample your righteous pride 

Unpunished, even unreviled." 

Through it all the Singer smiled. 
But far away with a mild, dazed look. 
The Prince replied in tones that shook: 

"You say his singing did this wrong. 
Would you learn the secret of that Song? 
I'll tell it you. This word is truth. 
He took the heart of eternal youth 
And made from it stars and men and winds, 
He breathed on the dust of it, starry minds 
Twinkled and flashed on the winds away 
Down all years, till the saddest day 
Grew glad for a Song men never heard 
To remember long, for it only stirred 
A heart in the mind's great natal hour — 
In the cool fresh dawn. With another power 
He built a city of all things fair, 
Earth and water, flame and air, 

82 



Peopled by dreams or substantial flesh 

Of men or their gods when prayer rose fresh, 

So all beheld their long-desired 

Take body and live. Some eyes admired, 

For such their dreams were; in disgust some turned 

In loathing, as from death inurned 

Within their very souls, — decay 

Enshrined in secret hopes, for they 

Were eaten through with rottenness 

Unknown, of the mind, and shadowless, — 

Revealed by all-betraying sleep 

Or waking dreams that drowse and keep 

A life's forbidden word no more. 

He showed you being's inmost core ; 

Feeling the thing you saw, I shrink 

Instinctively from hell's red brink 

Of hatred; your vile inner mind 

Would strike a Gorgon's litter blind. 

Much more he sang divinely; this. 

In your lewd ears was one foul hiss 

Of smiting serpents. When you cry 

'This Singer slandered us,' you lie." 

Then coldly spoke that greatest man — ^ 

All Wisdom's Head, like steel began: 

"I demand this man be tried. He sowed 
The seeds of heresy and showed 
Untutored minds a withered cheat; 
If unrestrained he will defeat 
The ends of Learning, banish Law 
From Science, lastly, overawe 
The multitude with gaudy shows 
For solid knowledge. Nought he owes 
To all fair Science held of yore, 

83 



To just authority or lore 

The Ancients taught, and we have proved, — 

His universe is tw^ice removed 

In time and space from what is real; 

Imagination's false appeal 

Supplies his reason's shameless lack, — 

Two is not four nor is white black. 

I scorn exaggeration; hear 

His wild conceits: 'the Earth, a sphere' — 

Not flat, as Science and Holy Writ 

Declare, — 'spins ever, dimly lit 

Around the giant ( !) Sun, a mote 

In swarms of worlds and suns ! — I quote 

My Friend who heard the Prelude. — ^Trash! 

'Our fixed Earth moves around a flash 

In everlasting night' ! — Much more 

As false I heard, and must deplore 

Your laxity which suffers fools 

To jeopardize our honoured Schools. 

But let him rave ! Truth shall prevail 

Though patient seekers faint and fail 

In their dim search. — My right I waive — 

Though my own charge is more than grave, — 

And under our strong Charter ask 

Our Priests to take this liar to task, 

They have been deeply injured, let 

Them seek all evidence and set 

The trial according to our laws. 

If there appear sufficient cause 

For guilt's fair proof, our State 

Prescribes such liars shall expiate 

In fire false doctrine. This man's peers — 

Our People here, shall judge. . . . Who fears 

To give his mind expression now? 

Though loyal, Prince, I disavow 

84. < 



Your leadership if your high hand 
Upsets that justice all demand." 

Then muttered threats or grunts, 



"I too," 



Broke out; the loyal hearts were few. 

The Prince choked down his wrath and sighed; 

He glanced at the Singer ere he replied: 

"You would have justice. Aye. You will 

To murder. Nay. You shall not kill 

A greater than yourself through cowardly fear 

That wisdom lies before a seer. 

All things you know that men have known, 

Never has vision been your own. 

Because you see not with the eye 

You pass the Future blindly by — 

A pebble's name alone is real, 

Wild dreams what all the stars reveal; 

Time in your reach, you ponder yet 

On your brain's well-ordered cabinet 

Where rows and rows of labelled things 

Inspire reentrant ponderings 

Begetting names on names. You think? 

You know? You only stare and blink 

At Science, mean bewildered mole. 

You see the dust of her whose soul 

Would blast you blind." 

He paused ; none spoke. 
On hills afar a new day broke. 
A shrill cock crowed, how far away! 
Through an open window's doubtful gray 
The summer dawn stole in on them. 
And the Morning-Star's pure liquid gem 

85 



Dissolved in the lucent blue. 

"Still fair! 
Let us quit this shambles and smell the air, — 
Under the roofless heavens try 
Whether man is merciful as the sky." 

He took the Singer's arm: 

"Come you 
With me; mild is the Dawn's kind blue." 

He led all out to the market place, 

Slovi^ his feet and grave his face, 

His cloak drawn close for the air struck chill — 

Cold as Wisdom's relentless will. 

The morning tipped a golden spire. 

The whole town bathed in mellow fire, 

Surely the fairest of all days 

Had dawned. From the Priests a thankful praise 

Rose full and pure ; the market-place 

Shone for a moment with heaven's own grace. 

In silent prayer all heads were bowed 

Save two, and over the frowsy crowd 

The clean cool breeze of morning blew. 

A Priest intoned: 

"We know not what we do, 
O Lord; be Thou our mind and guide. 
Direct our paths and chasten pride 
To Thy humility; our trust 
Is in Thee, help us to be just. " 

Amen!" 

An Elder drew apart 
His fellow judges: 

"Let it start, 
The sooner done the better! You 
Conduct the questions. Father ; few 

86 



Can gainsay that we justly charge. 
You, Brothers, skilfully skirt the marge 
Of the maddened rabble, do not stop 
Too long in one spot, only drop 
A word or two, and pass. You know 
Your business: would we strike a blow 
For these to hold against us? — Tell 
His song once more, and loose all hell 
A hive about his head." 

Then 
They knelt, for they were holy men, 
And such the custom was, — to pray 
Ere meat or murder, — in that day. 
They rose, and joined the crowd ; 
Their chosen spokesman cried aloud: 

"All People! Let this man withdraw. 
And wait, according to our law. 
Your finding whether that be true 
Or false we hold on him; let two 
Accompany as guard, and bring 
Him safely back when thrice we ring 
The bell in yonder tower." 

They went. 
Three men, the middle old and bent 
Beyond his years. . . . Skilfully 
The droppers plied their ministry 
Among the Jury: here a hint. 
There a sudden yellow glint, 
A threat, a leer, an insult, — these 
And viler things crept like disease 
From mind to mind or hand to hand. 
Till all would do whate'er command 
The leaders willed. Not overlong 
The accusations; his own Song 

87 



Had damned the Singer. Swift as fire 
All caught the Masters' red desire, 
It ate their hearts: 

"The stake! the stake!" 
They yelled; 

"The wheel! the wheel! we'll break 
His bones before we purge !" 

The bell 
Tolled thrice, a melancholy knell. 
Back they led the Singer; young 
He seemed, as though he ne'er had sung. 
The Prince looked on but spoke no word, 
Or, if he spoke, no listener heard. 

They haled their prey to the market-square, 

And many brought faggots to burn him there. 

Stones were hurled, but the Singer smiled J 

His face unstruck, for the aim was wild. 

The rabble cried: 

"Brothers! today we feast, 
A holiday. People!" 

A white-haired Priest 
Rebuked the multitude: 

"Rather say, 
O children, this is an Holy Day; 
The wicked shall perish assuredly. 
Our God hath said it, His ministers we; 
An Holy Day this, and our Lord is good ; 
For your constancy you shall have free food. 
Free wine, so much as each man will. 
This day shall emptiness have his fill. 
Exceeding kind is our gracious Lord 
To His ovm, — to liars, a flaming sword." 

Then some spoke mildly, — the calmer kind 

88 



Who tempered their wrath with judicial mind : 

"If he be accursed and Infidel, 

Is It just to haste his soul to hell? 

The body's ill infects the soul, 

Will burning his body make him whole ? 

Let us put his flesh to the rigorous test, 

No doubt there is much yet unconf essed : 

What the questioning wrings let the pure fire shrive, 

Thus shall we save his soul alive. 

We must qualify justice with mercy, friends. 

Yea, this is the course our Law commends." 

Then the Prince strode forward, his tense face white : 

''Silence! I speak with the highest right;" 

He unbuckled his sword and hurled it away 
Clattering over the stones. 

"You say 
I rule this Land by right divine, 
And you believe it. What Is mine 
I claim; obedience! Bloody beasts. 
You are betrayed by your false priests, 
They dare not fairly answer me 
For mine is your God's authority; ' 

What time did I assert 
This power? or smite you to the dirt 
Your feet befoul, you liars? Dumb 
At threatening lies, the hour Is come 
That speak I must; your anger goes 
Beyond myself. . . . Down, there! Who throws 
A stone at me shall burn in hell 
Forever. Aye , you know me well. 
Within your heart of hearts you fear 
This power God gave me though you sneer 

89 



With trembling lip. ... I give you leave 
To burn this Singer; no reprieve 
From me shall save him; hear, you swine I 
I give you leave by right divine, 
By that same right I lay on you 
God's curse supreme if so you do : 
If you have hearts that still can feel 
May they be pierced by grief's keen steel ; 
If yet your eyes may smile and see 
May they not weep for misery; 
Through slavish torments day by day 
May fear beat hovering hope away; 
May all your wine be soured to gall, 
Your meat take viperous life and crawl, 
Your daily bread be leavened well 
With foul disease and yeast of hell; 
Through sleepless tortures of the night 
May you hate memories of light ; 
On your dry lips may prayer turn 
To blasphemies that sting and burn; 
May all you cherish fall in dust; 
May all your daughters serve red lust. 
Your eldest son be firmly wed 
To strumpets in your honoured bed; 
May he who lisps beside your knee 
Strangle upon the gallows-tree; 
May your false wives conceive and bear 
Deformities of bestial hair; 
May you curse God, and your end be 
A drunkard's mad debauchery; 
May comfort fail and reason lie. 
Betraying faith the hour you die ; 
With your last breath may you taste flame 
And name in vain the saving name; 
May your souls drip strange leprosy 

90 



So when Hell sees, its fiends shall flee, 
And you shall feed the flames alone — 
Rending each other, groan for groan. 
God will do this and more to you 
If you burn this man. My word is true." 

They cowered and sweated in the sun. 
The Prince had boldly played, and won. 
The Singer walked to the Prince's side: 

"Unsay it. Prince. You lower your pride 

To their baser natures for my sake; 

Is a song worth this? — I scorn the stake. 

For some will remember one thing you said 

All their days when I am dead. 

It were better so, my young friend slain, 

If I live, I will never sing again, 

Remembering how he died, — and you. 

Who are a man and more than true." 

"Nay," 

said the Prince, 

"Your life is mine — 
Or in my k'eeping ; who spills the wine 
Shall slake himself on flame, I swear. 
Be calm, that curse is empty air, 
Its fires will never singe a flea. 
Much less a hog. They dote on me 
Whenas I bully or command — 
Such words are what they understand ; 
The Priests know better, but this takes 
The wind from their fat sails and makes 
Them sagging nothings now. Depart, — 
Before their sober tappers start 
The bung of reason from this cask 
/Of drunken villainy; my task 

91 



Is easy now, the soldiery 
Will soon be out to stand by me. 
Await me at the river-gate, — 
Nay, stand not there and idly prate 
Of 'comradeship' at such an hour — 
This mob lies lightly in my power, 
A word, and all is lost." 

"But no," 
The Singer smiled, 

"I will not go, 
And leave you here." — 

"You're obstinate! 
Hell! already 'tis too late — 
Look! where those vermin scurry through 
The crowd . . . what mischief will they do. 
What subtle devilry? They dare 
Not hint my curse is sham, that snare 
Will take them tod. Hold still ! I'll speak : 
You holy men ! What do you seek 
Among the People? Have you lost 
Some precious thing beyond the cost 
Of rubies? Is it ointment sweet 
With balms to soothe the angry heat 
My curse consumes you with? Then rest! 
There is an oil none ever pressed 
From olives or from herbs, will heal 
Your bleeding wounds and gently steal 
Dull woe away, — this balm is mine, 
I stilled it from a Song divine 
And from kind counsel offered me 
By him who sang, — forgiveness! He 
Persuaded, and I heard. Hear you! 
Go home in peace ; the day is new 
And yet unsoiled, so keep it, clean!" 



92 



One spoke: 

"We know well what you mean; 
This Prince of Infidels is barred 
From mercy; you are evil-starred, 
Eclipsed by his accursed bale, 
So far beyond the dimmest pale 
Of God's pure light you wander black 
As night. But we would lead you back, 
We too can suffer and forgive. . . . 
You shamed your high prerogative — 
Debased the privilege God lent 
To be the Devil's instrument, 
So that you cursed this People, — hurled 
The wrath of heaven upon the world 
For your own selfish ends. But we 
Administer authority 
As high as yours, and nullify 
Your sacrilegious curse s lie." 

His words fell as a healing balm 

On some, for dignified and calm. 

He raised his hand in blessing, then 

Took counsel with the holy men 

By whispering nods. The Prince said nought, 

His grave face drawn in painful thought. 

But soon he smiled, then laughed outright: 

"Well! here's a pretty piece of spite! 
I'll make that rogue my Minister 
Of State some day, he's cannier 
Than I, the rascal! Who will win — 
Respectability or Sin ? 
Come, I'll wager you a feast 
Against a song that wily priest 
Will carry off first honours? Done! 

93 



And if you lose? We'll have the fun! 

But stay, you said you would not sing 

Again. . . . well, if remembering 

Is pain, I did not mean to laugh — 

Instead, you shall write my epitaph 

If I win the wager. — ^Watch this move! 

How doth meek industry improve 

On stubborn soil or withered tree 

The pious fruits of sanctity; 

See where they crawl among the crowd, — 

They'll not be damned because they're proud! 

You lose ! Vile panders to low vice. 

The mob is mine; go to, entice 

Well-hardened hearts to your hot shame — 

These yet believe on Hell's red name." 

Bitterly he watched it all: 

"Give men their heads, some will be small ; 

Each tyrant-churl would grind the state 

Had he a mind both mean and great 

To eke his petty will. ... I shared 

With all : a check, the fangs are bared 

Behind their smiles. . . . Hypocrisy! 

Twin-sister of fair Liberty, 

Let me embrace thee, goddess mine 

And get on thee a race divine 

Of overmen. . . ." 

The Singer smiled : 
**Was it my lying song beguiled 
Your mind from juster ways serene 
To follow after gods unclean? 
Were it not better if I went — 
As you advised? They seem content 
To let me live." 

94 



"When you go, 
I go. Content ? You do not know 
This people. They would slay you here 
But for the saving grace of fear — 
My curse yet tingles in their brains; 
Hark you ! perchance they'll spare our pains !" 

"All People!" 

rang an Elder's voice: 
"Be not downcast, rejoice, rejoice! 
Evil is by us un wrought. 
We bring your Prince's word to nought. 
Absolve you from those penalties 
And smite his power to its knees: 
Hear you! for cursings uttered late 
O Prince, we excommunicate 
You soul and body from our fold; 
Our offices we now withhold. 
Our ministries by ancient law 
And hoary custom we withdraw 
From you with all their comforts; none 
Shall succour you, until undone 
By prayer and fasting, penitence 
And deeper proofs of reverence. 
Your sacrilege is purged, and whole 
Once more, our God receives your soul 
A contrite offering of peace. 
Thus, our People, we release 
Your souls from his harsh bondage. Still 
Are you the subjects of his will. 
He is your Earthly Prince, with powers 
But of this Earth; your souls are ours. 
Obedience is his lawful due 
In matters temporal, and you 
Must so comport yourselves. . . . O Lord, 

95 



Our Maker, turn his heart toward 
Thine own right soon, nor let him err 
Too long; let not his pride defer 
Thy mercy, Lord. Amen !" 

A pause; 

"No use; my curse yet overawes 
Their superstitious minds; who wins 
This move? The hellish game begins," 

The white Prince whispered fearfully, 

''What keeps the faithful soldiery?" 

The Elder's solemn voice resumed: 

"Though he who sang was justly doomed 

By all your votes to burn in fire, 

And we uphold your free desire 

In spirit, merciful are we; 

Hear now your shepherds' firm decree, 

You faithful ones: This man shall live! 

His heinous murder we forgive — 

His victim's soul would have it so. 

No hand of yours shall strike one blow — 

Though just,— at his accursed head; 

Let him be numbered with the dead 

Henceforth; let his gross body be 

A shadow only ghosts may see — 

A trick of man's deceitful mind. 

His voice a piping in the wind 

So none shall answer when he cries 

Aloud for water, till he dies 

Foretasting fire. But, if he turn. 

Then shall his torment cease to burn 

96 



His body, and consume his heart 
With penitence, and rend apart 
The fibres of his blasphemy; 
In his conversion let all praise 
God's merciful, mysterious ways, 
And freely welcome him: till then 
He is cut off from all. Amen!" 
"Come!" 

said the Prince. 

"That ends the game. 
I do not hate, but pity them. 
I would not wear their diadem 
Were it their Master's heavenly crown: 
My dream of straw has fallen down. 
My reign a failure; let it end! 
I lost a crown to find a friend ; 
Come, let us go: you win the feast!" 

He hesitated, then: 

"The least 
I owe this People is 'farewell';" 

He raised his hand, and silence fell 
On all: 

"Good bye, or till we meet 
Again in equal converse sweet 
With fellowship, God's fairest gift 
To men ; I go, but let me lift 
With my own hand my cruel curse first — 
You shall be blessed, nowise accursed. 
I charge not to your hearts the blame 
But take upon myself all shame, 
For I have ruled you. . . . Fire is quick, 
Think not you blind us by this trick. 
Though slower, death is quite as sure 

97 



By strict starvation. Some would lure 

Me into murder; even so. 

Therefore, I quit you now, and go 

With him you hate, to cheer and feed 

His soul and body; he has need 

Of one you dare not starve. If, when 

You turn from wrath and judge as men, 

Not maddened beasts, you sobered think, 

*He shared with us his meat and drink, 

Would he were back,' — if when, I say. 

You think these things, and some would pray 

Their prince return, then will I hear 

On one condition: priest and seer. 

Churl and nun and courtesan — 

All flesh that goes by name of man 

Or woman in this teeming Land 

Shall humbly kiss our Singer's hand 

And ask his gracious pardon. . . . Come!" 

He turned and left them gaping, dumb. 
With his arm in the Singer's they saw him go, 
His gay cloak flapping to and fro 
Jauntily in the morning breeze. 

Vainly the Elders strove to please 
The fickle people: 

"Oh dismal nights 
To come! Alas, the old delights 
Are ours no longer; he was good — 
A man of kingly fortitude. 
And generous!" 

On the dusty road 
Beyond the town the outcasts strode, 
Their backs to the past and their faces glad 

98 



To the future, silent both, one sad 
Though he showed it not for the other's sake. 
At noon they sought a shady brake, 
And the Prince said: 

"Tarry here, I pray, 
I'll not be overlong away. 
When conscience calls a prince must heed: 
Do as I ask, please do not plead 
Again that I go back, the hour 
For our return is in their power." 

He went. Despite of aching thought 
The Singer slept. 

"See what I've brought !" 
Broke through his dream of song and stake; 
There at the ferny edge of the brake 
Stood the Prince, in his circling arms 
Abundance of good things found on farms: 

"All these for the feather in my cap! 
We'll not starve yet awhile — mayhap^ — 
So long as my clothes last. Come, fall to — 
This is that feast I wagered you." 

The Singer choked down a sob, and ate, 
Smiling outwardly. 

"Such is fate!" 
The Prince laughed merrily, 

"Yesterday 
A palace, today the dusty way 
And the sky for roof, — the blessed sky! . . 
I will have earned my salt before I die, 
I was sick to death of that pampered pet 
Some called their 'Prince.' Let us forget 
The circumstance which gave me birth, 

99 



And henceforth live ^s sOns of the Earth — - 
Close to her smile and warm brown breast 
Today, — and tomorrow. Yes, she is best 
And sweetest of all women. Health 
To you, my friend, and honest wealth 
That comes In dreams after days well-spent 
In ruddy toll! We will be content 
With bread for our labour, gold 
Shall clutch not us In Its filthy hold." 

They jested and ate, then hastened on 
For the afternoon was all but gone: 

"Every mile Is a meal to us; 
Though their subtle ways are devious 
Straight are their tongues, and swift as death 
The poisonous wind of slander's breath". . 

Under the friendly stars they slept; 
Up with the strong young sun they leapt 
Eager and fresh for the road that lay 
Clean as a gull's wing, on and away 
Over the hills. They gathered fruits. 
And the Singer had skill In the lore of roots, 
So they spoke no man In their rapid flight 
Day after day; and night by night 
They laid them down under sapphire-blue 
Spangled with fire. A chestnut hue 
Crept over their faces, day by day. 
And their beards grew fast, so none might say 
If these were the outcasts. Bolder then. 
They turned and sought the haunts of men. 
Harvest hummed In the summer air. 
Sturdy horses toiled everywhere. 
Women and men with sickle or scythe 

ICX) 



Sang in the fields ; all hearts were blithe 
For this was a bountiful year, and good. 

"If we work for you will you give us food?" 
The wanderers asked, 

"We lack red meat; 
It was not written that man shall eat 
Berries and roots alone." 

"We will! 
For a man's hard work a strong man's fill; 
Here are your scythes, there stands the corn.' 

So they toiled like men in the golden morn 
And ate like gods in the restful noon. . . . 

"We are too happy, this must end soon," 
The Singer sighed, as he gazed at the stooks 
One afternoon; suspicious looks 
And words half-heard had spoiled his day. 
The Prince looked quickly up: 

"But nay, 
Our beards are so thick none would ever guess 
In the City itself, then how much less 
In this far place. There is no word 
Of their 'missing Prince;' these have not heard 
The rascal absconded, — they'll wait awhile 
For the doleful new^," 

and a swift sly smile 
Lit up his face; 

"let them miss us sore 
In the winter nights, they will soon implore 
Forgiveness, — which you'll kindly grant. 
My heart is warm but my cloak is scant — 
Good God! see there!" 

"Hell singe the hound!" 

lOI 



The Singer laughed, 

"I fear we're found." 

Across the field with dignity 
Moved Learning's stern pomposity, 
All Wisdom's Head had found them out; 
Serene he moved, while round about 
Spun lesser orbs of holy note. 

''Prince, I'll purchase for a groat 
Your peace of mind — that's generous," 
The Singer smiled : 

"They'll beggar us ^ 
Unless you go." 

The Prince grew stern: 
"My subject! will you never learn 
My word is law? They understand 
That ere I go they kiss your hand." 

Then High Authority bowed down 
And spoke: 

"Your Majesty is brown. 
Good health has tanned your honoured cheek." 
"Aye?" 

said the Prince; 

"What do you seek?" 

Uneasily the great man stood. 
Then blurted out : 

"Think me not rude — 
The beard becomes you not," 

and bit 
His foolish tongue for lack of wit. 

"Have you a razor? No? Well, send 
Your man for one, and I'll amend 

102 



My countenance; — bring everything 
To soothe a bear or shave a king, 
Good fellow, — napkins, olive-soap — 
In cleanliness is my last hope. . . . 
Be seated, pray; sit, all of you. 
How warm the day, the sky how blue!" 

Discomfited, all sat and stared 

At nothing, speechless; not one dared 

That quiet irony. At last 

The messenger returned, so passed 

A thunder-cloud in silence. 

"Here 
The implements, truth-loving seer; 
My beard offends you, let me prove 
My love of lore : yourself remove 
Offence. You will not? I command! 
I, who am your Prince. Your hand 
Alone is worthy." 

Grudgingly 
The great man toiled while squeals of glee 
Piped uncontrolled from his small friends: 

"How joyous 'tis when Learning bends 
And shows his human back!" 

"Well done!" 
At length said the Prince, 

"but I feel the sun — 
No matter. Now shave my friend." 

In vain 
The high seer pleaded ; he toiled again 
In the blistering sun. 

"Do we meet your taste? 
Beards, I admit, are a trifle unchaste — 
An offence to truth and moral law, 

I03 



But they lend some chins a decent awe, 
Thus we wore them," 

grave, sedate 
Was the Prince as a king In Council of State; 
** Proceed ; so much for our disguise, 
Our faces at least shall tell no lies." 

"Your Highness!" stammered the mighty man, 
And stopped for words; once more began, 
"Your Highness!" 

"Yea?" 

said the Prince, 

"then out 
With It! I am very high, no doubt." 
"Your Highness!" 

fear supplied his lack 
Of words, 

"Your People wish you back! 
I have scoured the towns from gutter to wall 
This last three months, from garret to hall 
Have I patiently searched, until accident" — 

"Omit the rest; It was all well-meant 
We have no doubt," 

sighed the Prince, 

"but tell. 
Who cares for my People? Are all things well?" 

"The Council of Elders and Judges tends 
Their needs with the Priests, — but not as friends 
I fear, — as masters, some complain; 
Oh Prince! we need your smile again!" 

"Smile? But surely the great Judge cheers 
All with his song? — In song he has no peers" — 
The Prince stopped short in quick alarm ; 

104 



*'Speak out! has this man come to harm? 
Why sit you- there all gray with fear?" 

In low tones answered the humbled seer, 
As the slow tears trickled down his face: 

"Not fear, my Prince, but grief. His place 
Shall know him not again. . . . My friend, 
He was, my life-long friend ... his end 
Six weeks ago . . . I dream it yet . . . 
All-healing Time! let me forget 
That sight. . . . The brutish maddened mob 
Laid hands . . ." 

he choked a racking sob, 
While Prince and Singer looked helpless on, — 
" . . . Cried out, 'our kindly Prince is gone 
From us forever for your sake' — 
Seized him, dragged him to the stake 
And I — Oh God forgive me! — fled 
With the Priests and Elders. . . . Would I 

were dead 
As his cold ashes ! . . . one chill ray 
Of comfort cheers me; many say 
He suffered not, a blessed stone 
Cheated the flames . . . none heard him groan, 
He gave no cry. . . ." 

Not one said aught, 
Long all stared in moody thought; 
The great man's grief was too sincere 
For any empty words to cheer, 
They let him weep in peace. At last 
He ceased, and sighed : 

"The Past 
X Let be; I cannot help it now." 



105 



Serene once more his eyes and brow, 
He told the Priests' and Elders' woes: 

"Strict rule is hard, your Highness knows, 

You guided them with slackened rein — 

A knack our Council strives in vain 

To learn; our case is desperate, 

We sow white love and reap red hate ; 

If you come not, they will demand 

Your Cousin from the Northern Land 

To lead them. Just he is, but stern. 

And loves not Priests,* if what we learn 

Be true, I fear some may fare ill — 

Though he be just. . . . All love you still ; 

Oh, Prince, come back! The Hall is bright 

For your glad welcome. . . . Start tonight!" 

"I'll come! Singer, hold out your hand. 
This man shall kiss it for all our Land — 
The symbol shall suffice. You will?" 

The great man rose and his voice fell chill : 

"Our Council bade me tell this man 
That he is forever under their ban. 
They deemed you chastened, but still you cling 
In your folly to this accursed thing; 
And more, if yet you blindly scorn 
God's truth and light, I am to warn 
Your arrogance what is in store 
For infidelity. No more 
Shall you walk freely; every hand 
Shall be against you ; we command 
On pains of never-ending hell, 
All people neither to give nor sell 

io6 



You bread or water, salt or meat, 
Shade or shelter, bed or heat. 
We so ordain in love, not hate, 
For we would hasten, not belate 
The hour you turn once more to God 
And tread those paths you always trod." 

The Prince flung down a silver coin: 

"My last! a keepsake. Let this join 
My Judas to your Christ. I pay 
For this keen razor. Who can say 
Starvation is a pleasant death ? 
Who would die slowly, breath by breath? 
Nay, go not pale; I only jest. 
We are no cowards. Life is best 
Though it be hell. We could not move 
Your human sympathy or love. 
So we tried fear, — and failed. We take 
These implements for comfort's sake; 
So tell my People, and remind 
All of my oath. They will not find 
Us merciless, — perchance not worse 
Than mere forgetters. Your pious curse- 
How terrible! But we may shave? 
We may meet God, and we would save 
Our faces as He made them." 

"Nay!" 
The Singer shouted : 

"Have your way 
In all but this! You shall not die 
And make my life a bitter lie; 
Go back ! the wretched people need 
Your guidance! let the ravens feed 

107 



The outcast as they always fed, 

Let manna be my daily bread 

If I am guiltless, and if not 

I care not where I fall and rot. 

Will your end make my passing sweet? 

If God yet reigns how dare I meet 

Him with your murdered soul? Go back; 

Fear not, kind Prince, I shall not lack 

Food and raiment, — all these years 

The homeless beasts have been my peers, 

And their resource is mine ; but you — 

When summer falls and fruits grow few — 

Nourished tenderly — though strong — 

Can you withstand the winter long 

Or fight the demon wind's keen knives? 

Alone, I prosper; both our lives 

Are periled if you cling to me — 

Go back! I ask it selfishly." 

"Well," 

said the Prince, 

"You've had your say; 
Come, let us hasten on our way. 
I am more obstinate than you. 
There is one thing I will not do — 
Take back my word. Yes, call it pride ; 
What I have sworn, that shall abide. 
In learning I may be a dunce. 
But this I know : That Prince who once 
Repudiates his oath shall save 
Dishonoured honour in his grave 
Alone; his people will not stand 
In his low presence, his command 
Shall be an empty mockery. 
Therefore shall they come to me 

io8 



1 



And do my will ere I assent. 
Your kindly counsel is well-meant, 
But foolish. Come! — Farewell once more; 
When winter blows you will implore 
Our quick return, — ^you'll miss the feasts 
And rousing cheer, for your dull priests 
Are doleful hosts. We'll come again 
When peace unites unhappy men 
In broad goodwill ! — Farewell!" 

And so 
The troubled reapers saw them go, 
Swinging down the road. One sighed: 

"Oh what a stubborn fool is pride!" 

Under the brilliant skies that night 
The men surveyed their desperate plight 
And agreed to a plan the Prince laid down : 

**We can keep ahead of them town by town; 

A few forced marches will beat their lies. 

We will travel straight as the wise crow flies 

Up to the north. Few know me there. 

We can earn our bread and with sensible care 

Conserve supplies for a last long lap 

Over the border. If no mishap 

Upsets our plans, we can winter at ease 

With my cousin, strong lord of the cold north seas. 

Thence we may let my People know 

Our whereabouts: if they wish it so. 

Straight as the crow will we return 

When the soft snow falls and the Yule-logs burn." 

From village to village they sweated for bread, 
Autumn stole out and the summer fled; 

J09 . ; 



Balmy nights were kind to them . 

As one by one on reddened stem 
The lingering leaves forsook the trees 
And softly fell on the soft, warm breeze; 
So they laid them down under drowsy skies — 
Kind is the night when summer dies, 
They slumbered long and peacefully, — 
Gentle is night when the long days flee. 

So summer fell and autumn passed, 
Out strode the winter in one chill blast; 
Deathly still seemed the stars, and near, 
Bluer than steel is, icily clear: 
Then the Prince and Singer slept by day 
Warmed in the red Sun's wintry ray. 

Their scanty hoard from little grew less 
And they felt real hunger's cruel distress; 
As they almost laughed at their gray despair. 
Of the last each took his rightful share: 

"Have we distanced the tongues? Well, hunger 

wins; 
One way or another we pay for our sins." 

They sought a town in cold, bleak north, 
But the Priests and Elders cast them forth, 
Saying: 

"We tend no hearth for the infidel. 
Thaw your bones at the fires of hell;" 

For tongues reached far in those harsh days 
And the godless travelled by lonely ways. 

Out from the town at dusk they stole. 
Cold of body and sick of soul, 

IIO 



I 



But the Prince cried, 

"Courage, man! Keep up, 
This is only the lip of the Cup!" 

Then smiled the Singer as oft of old: 

"Yes! though the brew be bitter cold 

Let us drain it all to the last slow lees . . . 

No snow has fallen, and those gaunt trees 

Are shelter enough for yearling sheep, 

God will temper the wind there while we sleep 

If not for us, for the gentler sake 

Of His loved lambs." 

As he laughed, a flake 
Softly fell on the Prince's cloak. 
Both looked at it but neither spoke. 

They reached the trees. No sheep were there, 
Only the cold ground, hard and bare. 
The hushed air paused intensely still. 
Then a warmth stole over its weird white chill 
And the Singer laughed: 

"Is this God's mind 
To temper for us the winter's wind? 
Though His friendly sky is overcast, 
Kinder than home is His empty vast; 
What care we for the soft snow-storm ? 
'Tis but His down to keep us warm!" 

"Let us not tempt Providence," 

mocked the other ; 
"So thick is this cloak it would surely smother 
One alone of us, — take your share. 
Come, take it man, 'tis only fair. 
And close together we may defy 

III 



winter himself." 

With a merry eye 
The Singer glanced at the cloak, and a laugh 
Broke from his lips: 

"What is the half 
Of nothing, Prince? There is not enough 
In that scanty rag of flimsy stuff 
To warm the weanling oi a mouse! 
Keep it yourself; I had no house 
And need no cloak ; nay, put by fear, 
Thus have I slept full many a year 
Under God's open, but you require 
Bed and food and cheerful fire. 
Your needs these are, as mine is a song! 
I am used to It." 

They argued long, 
But In the end lay peacefully down 
A stone's throw from the twinkling town. 
The Prince, close-wrapped in the whole of his cloak, 
Turned to the drowsy Singer, and spoke: 

''Good night! I knew you were obstinate. 
But I like you still. Don't sleep too late!" 

"Good night!" 

the laughing Singer said, 
"And when you rise please air the bed !" 

Warmer grew the drowsy air. 
Sleep soon healed the heart of care; 
The snow held off Its ghostly hand 
And the Singer sang in Slumberland. 
In a dream he laughed, 

"How warm I am, 
And surely the Prince Is a well-shorn lamb !" 

112 



He knew no more till the morning gleamed 

White and cold as the heaven he dreamed 

Uneasily in the dawn's first ray. 

Half asleep in the morn he lay 

Warm and drowsy, then awoke. 

Over him lay the Prince's cloak. 

Close by his side on the snow-white ground 

Gently swelled a still white mound. 

He arose, and wandered forth alone, 
Within him his heart was a frozen stone. 

Back to the still, white mound he crept, 
But spoke no word, for the Prince yet slept. 
Then a cold rage froze him in mind and limb: 

*'By God, I will take revenge for him." 

Through the drear, white day with hands that bled 
He tore at the ground, and buried his dead 
When night came down with a swift, thick pall. 
He rose from his knees and cursed it all. 
Sky and trees and the town of men. 
But back to the town he strode again. 

The warder stopped him at the gate, 
The Singer smiled, 

"I will be late 
For the Manger-Feast, so let me by; 
My heart is changed, and I would cry 
Aloud in your Temple, 'mercy.' " 

"Grace," 
Cried the warder, 

"shines from your altered face; 
Pass, and be blessed, O Penitent! 

113 



But will your Friend not seek?" 

"He went 
A shorter way," 

the Singer said ; 
The warder smiled with a nod of his head. 

A holy man on the long white street 
Turned as he heard the steps, to greet 
A fellow-worshiper: 

"Good cheer, 
My brother! Happiest of the year 
This evening is; a joyous Birth 
We celebrate o'er all this earth 
One gentle Presence healed and cheered," 

He paused beneath a torch and peered 
With batlike sight at the white, still face, 
And cried: 

"What make you in this place. 
Accursed of God who drove you out — " 

He raised his voice as if to shout 
For help; too late: the Singer reached 
A stone; before the harsh throat screeched. 
The writhing lips were one soft plash 
Of bleeding flesh. . . . 

"Have I been rash?" 
His cold lips thinned in a ghastly smile: 

"If I am vile he was more vile; 
Never will his lips lie again," 

He turned and left the wretch to pain. 

The Temple's gorgeous windows glowed 
Afar on him as on he strode 

114 



Along the whitely silent street, 

And as he neared a music sweet 

Of ''peace on Earth, good will to men," 

Stole on his ears. Abruptly then 

He paused, irresolutely turned 

Upon his steps, but laughed, and spurned 

The bleeding pity from his wrath: 

"The fool should not have blocked my path." 

The Temple's doors stood open wide — 
Those massive doors, their builders' pride, 
Bound with iron. To stand rude shocks 
Of infidels, all seven locks 
Were flawless bronze; so, fourteen bars 
Kept pagans out in holy wars. 

Past these doors he strode, and stayed 
Within the portal's deeper shade. 
Thence, with rapid glance he scanned 
The bright interior, — swiftly planned 
The deed he deemed atonement. High 
Around, the windows caught his eye: 

"Twelve feet at least above the floor, 

And what is strong as this oak door? 

How rich the heavy-paneled walls. 

The choir's carved oak, and priests' high stalls!" 

He cried aloud : 

"O Master, save 
Thy servant!" 

Humbly down the nave 
He crept, his stricken head bowed low; 
His weary steps were very slow. 

115) 



Amazed, all turned. The penitent 
Stole meekly on, most reverent; 
His every movement shone with grace 
Until he reached the holiest place — 
A Manger filled w^ith common straw, 
Where round about in silent awe 
Three men adoring as of old 
With myrrh and frankincense and gold 
Did homage to a babe, as when 
One brought the love of God to men 
So long ago on such a night ; 
Beneath a low-hung tender light — 
A cruse of oil whose rich perfume 
Brought Eastern lilies in their bloom. 
The smiling babe unconscious lay 
Or reached his rosy hands tO' play 
With gold and myrrh and frankincense: 
The Singer wept his penitence. 
An Elder cried, 

"Confess, confess!" 

The Singer wept, 

"I do no less." 

The Elder lifted up his voice: 
"Brethren sing! let us rejoice! 
This Prince of Infidels is turned 
To our true fold ; the heart that burned 
With blasphemies is pure as snow!" 

The weeping Singer answered low: 

"O Priests and Elders, hear a thing 
Beyond all hymns of praise; I bring 
Your lawful Prince's penitence! 

Ii6 



His heart was touched when we went hence 

But yestereve, and I would win 

Your absolution for his sin. 

Although his soul will not approve 

What I will do, thus may I move 

Your righteous hearts to open wide 

So we may enter side by side 

God's kingdom here on this sad earth. 

May mercy cheer the Manger-Birth!" 

"The Devil's towers of strength fall down," 
A white priest cried; 

"O blessed town 
The grace of God has lighted on, 
The last strong hope of Hell is gone! 
What would you have? Nay, speak it, man! 
The Prince is ours!" 

In tears began 
The Singer: 

'*Nay, you would deny 
So great a boon ; can sinful I 
Crave anything?" 

"But ask! receive! 
Scarcely will our flock believe 
This news ! Their lawful Prince is won ! 
Ask the Moon, we'll give the Sun!" 

"Then clear the Temple of all folk 
Save Priests and Elders;" 

humbly spoke 
The Singer: 

"such a tale I bring 
Of sin and hardship it will wring 
Your hearts, but this wild mob I feel 
Would question it with stone and steel, 

117 



So blasphemous It is; not long 
My burning tale of shameless wrong 
Against high God. Bid all await 
Without, — an hour — while I relate 
This crimson sin; they'll gain their king 
To be, pure past caviling." 

The chief Priest laughed a joyous laugh, 
Then to the people: 

'In behalf 
Of one you loved ere he fell low — 
Your Prince!- — I ask a boon; I know 
Your hearts will grant it willingly, 
For God has set your kind Prince free 
From Hell, and he believes! Depart 
An hour, while we unload this heart 
Of all its woe and his." 

Then, as he ceased, 
The people rose and passed with smiles 
And happy nods down all the aisles, 
Down to the doors, and out. But one, 
The woman who had brought her son 
To bless the manger, lingered yet; 
The Singer saw, and drops of sweat 
Broke on his brow. He took the child, 
And when he spoke his voice was mild : 

"Woman! take your son. I need 
A swifter tongue than his to plead." 

The mother took her babe, and last 
Of all that throng she whitely passed 
Through the open doors, in doubt. 

"Kind Masters, bar the people out; 
What I would say but God may hear. 



Bolt and lock all fast. I fear 
Their violence when I confess — 
And only your white hands may bless 
The wretch I am. Bring me the key — 
Assurance of security 
Lends breath to prayer." 

He took 
The key. 

"My friends, since I forsook ' 

The paths of childhood, I have erred. 
I faint and thirst," 

thus they heard 
Who listened at the strong doors' chink : 

"You guard the waters I would drink; 
But let me tell my turning first, 
Like fire my tongue is all athirst." 

He paused, then very calmly told 
The Prince's life, and death by cold. 
He described the burial: 

"See this hand; 
There is that on it you understand, 
I say no more." 

And when he came 
To the smitten priest, some hissed out "shame!" 
And some spat "Devil!" Then awhile 
He thought, until: 

"Joy makes me smile," 
He said: 

"O brothers, gaze around — 
The windows twelve feet from the ground, 
How may repentance look within? 
Have seven-locked doors a smile to win 
Shame, and welcome sin? — Not these 

XI9 



Bring lustful manhood to its knees. 

By those strong doors in humble thought 

I said, 

'Was't thus their Master taught?' . 
Your Prince of Peace may be divine . . . 
This is your Prince's cloak, you swine . . . 
A man as kindly as a smile. 
As kingly as your hides are vile. 
And he is dead for want of heat^ — 
A chance to sweat for bread and meat; 
For housing of a dog he died — 
The kennel that your hearts denied 
I swear by God shall be his pyre. 
He died for lack of bread and fire. 
*Go warm your bones at the flames of hell,' 
You said. He died, and it is well . . . 
Without, the night is cold ; within, how warm. 
How peaceful here, and he is in the storm. 
Here is cheering wine and bread, 
Your Master's body. He is dead." 

A prying girl through the keyhole peered 
And she saw a thing her whole soul feared. 
The Singer cleared the altar-rail, 
In his hands a cloak, and the priests went pale. 
He flung the cloak on the sacrament. 
With ashen hands the Elders rent 
Their garments; shrill, a trembling wail 
Rose from the Priests' lips: 

"Lord, prevail! 
Sacrilege reddens thy natal night; 
Cast out this Devil, we have no might . . 
Great God! he's mad!" 

The Singer smiled 
As innocently as a child: 

120 



"Nay, brothers. That is your mistake. 

The mind which slept is well awake, 

My red, mad brain is clean and sane, 

My dead, old life is a ghost of pain ; 

Now ? The joy has entered my very soul ! 

My bones sing out and I am whole. 

No more will I utter blasphemies 

Or chant the Devil's litanies; 

Such a Psalm will I sing of flaming praise 

That men will remember it all their days. 

And God, your God, shall hear at last; 

I sang for mine. . . . but that is past. . 

A groan for a groan, a sigh for a sigh, 

A tongue for a slander, a lip for a lie, 

'An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth' — 

All else is lies but this is truth. 

Yea, brothers, you taught me this right well, 

In thanks I will sing you the psalms of Hell — 

Or the cold, white heaven where my Friend is. 

If your souls glow not the chill is his." 

He paused, and glanced at the window-leads 
Where a ragged fringe of curious heads 
Slowly showed, for those without 
Who heard, grew cold with more than doubt 
For a feast delayed in the freezing wind. 
Some said: 

"This man has greatly sinned, 
They make confession long for him." 

"Yea," 

said others; 

"This devil's limb 
Will keep us here in the cold all night; 
Climb up, you fellow, so long and slight, 

121 



Stand on our hands and gaze within, 
He has talked enough of his heinous sin; 
See if he's any the nearer to grace." 

Stupidly many a churlish face 
Flattened on each rich window-pane; 
As the Singer saw, he laughed: 

"What stain 
Encrimsons your face, poor shivering wretch ? 
Are you cold, and does your fancy stretch 
So far as hell to keep you warm? 
Well, your Prince too dreams in the soft snow- 
storm — 
There's another face ! What a delicate green ! 
Two purple bladders, a red between! 
How beautiful the stained glass makes 
You — filthy brood of mottled snakes!" 

They saw him turn to the huddled priests. 
And heard him say: 

"Straw is for beasts, — 
To keep them warm. . , . These stones are damp," 

And he wrenched from its chains the holy lamp — 
Hurled its blazing oil on the straw. 
The Singer's smile was the last they saw; 
Down in horror they dropped to the ground. 

Then suddenly a terrible sound 
Like a chorus of hell tore up the night. 
And the windows leaped out one blaze of light. 
Each painted saint and the nails of pain 
Shone with an awful Living stain. 
And high above the crackling din 
Rang paeans of praise for incarnate sin: 

12a 



Hell rose up before their eyes, 

Through their startled ears pierced the damneds' 

fierce sighs; 
They heard the rending of flesh and bones, 
Screams of infants and mothers' groans. 
Believers' prayers, and infidels' yells 
Defiant through time in the hell of hells — 
Earth beneath and heaven above, 
Eternal wrath and infinite love; 
They saw a husband happily saved, 
On a flaming bed his lost wife raved 
For a single drop to cool her tongue; 
They saw their children torn and flung, — 
Eyes eaten out by worm and snake 
Carrion far on the flaming Lake, 
For over it all a writhing red 
Crawled and slimed, or paused and fed. 
As the flames leaped higher, the awful psalm 
Ceased for an instant; this was the calm 
Before a tempest that scattered their chaff. 
They heard the Singer's ringing laugh. 
Then a joyful shout: 

"I will paint the place 
We are going to by your God's grace; 
Heaven ! my brothers, look, — through the smoke !" 

Like summer's thunder a torrent broke 
Of pitiless blasphemies cruel and cold: 
Crowns of thorn and spears of gold. 
Human sacrifice held divine, 
Swillers of blood and sippers of wine. 
Eaters of flesh and beggars for bread. 
Endless praise from the weary dead, 
Eternal joys of inhuman gloom: 
Then the Song pealed out like the trump of doom 

123 



And the windows glowed with an angrier red- — 
As husks in a storm the listeners fled. 

Without the town from field or tree 

They watched, and shivered in misery, 

While the snow shone red in the crimson light. 

"The Devil is walking abroad tonight — 
Or the wrath of God, I know not which," 

One said ; and another, 

"I smell pitch—" 
"'Tis the Temple's roof, not what you dream, 
Superstitious fool, — there goes a beam! — " 

As a spout of sparks rose red and sheer; 

"Come, let us go back, that's an end of fear!" 

One started to follow: 

"Curses of hell! 
What's that?" 

he stumbled and headlong fell 
Over a long, red mound of snow; 

"The Devil threw me and broke my toe, 
Go yourself ! I would rather freeze 
Than trust myself to this night's disease." 

Above the crashing timbers' din 

With a rumbling roar the walls fell in. 

As the thick snow thawed to a cold, wet sleet, 

"This should cool his fervent heat," 
A scoffer sneered, and the last sparks rose. 

124 



Long it poured. In the dawn, 

"It snows!" 
A woman cried ; 

"We shall die of cold." 

As the slow day broke some youths grew bold ; 
And urged the others: 

"There is nought to fear, 
Unless we return we shall perish here; 
The fire is black this many an hour, 
And has a dead man will or power 
For good or evil? Let us see 
An end of this red mystery." 

So back they slunk to gloat on it. 

Cold was the fire one man had lit. 

Then the fear thawed out from their frozen bones, 

But left them cold as the Temple stones; 

The Song's strange echo lingered yet, 

In the biting air they shook and sweat. 

Scoffers grew silent, and morbid eyes 

Beheld the day, — to realize. 

"We jested there while our Temple burned," 
An old man mourned, then bewildered, turned 
Away from the crowd; 

"What drunkenness 
Maddened our blood and made us less 
Than the beasts that perish?" 

a young man cried. 

"Your Prince is dead," 

his mother sighed, 
And all took up the doleful plaint: 

125 



"Our Prince, our beloved, our gentle saint, 
Our Prince, — our Prince !" 

they moaned and wept, 
But no man knew where the outcast slept. 

A bitter doubt consumed their souls: 

"In other towns the good news tolls 
Solemnly from many a tower, ^ 

Slowly tolls the holy hour 
For all to welcome Goodwill in; 
O gracious Lord! What was our sin 
That we must stand without and weep? 
No shepherds tend thy lonely sheep. . . . 
We might have saved them from the flame 
Had we but called thy saving Name. . . ." 

The morn grew colder; all afraid 

Knelt by their shattered Home, and prayed : 

"Turn us to Thee and comfort those 

We scorned on Earth with Thy repose. . . 

Over the mounded ruin of night 

The kind snow swelled with a merciful white. 



126 



POSTSCRIPT 

I told this tale to one I love, 
And ht asked, 

"Well, what does all this prove? 
Or should a tale prove anything? — 
Let your listeners do the interpreting. 
But perhaps I judge with too much haste — 
I believe you have not such wretched taste: 
^It was long ago in the harsh dead past. 
He was first of his line, mayhap the lasf — 
As your story says; let us hope it's so!" 

Then he told me much I'm glad to know, 
Some of those things I pass on to you 
Who read this tale ; he declared them true : 






"The good old days were not so bad. 
In that simple life most men were glad ; 
Who does not mourn for knighthood's loss — 
Those days of the rose and rosy cross? 
Well, at least their arguments were real. 
Our banal words replace their steel. . . . 

We are Christian men and women today. 
The gloom of those years has passed away. 
After nightmare years is the world awake — 
But a horrible dream is the blazing stake. 
Aye, ours is the longed-for liberal age 
When the singer takes counsel with priest and sage. 
When each may seek, and finding, teach 
In freedom of thought and freedom of speech, 
When Jew and Christian, infidel, 
In brotherly love securely dwell — 
All have we reconciled, sect by sect, 

127 



And we know that all men are God's elect; 

All sides we judge with an open mind, 

For the soul is the fruit and the creed but rind. . . , 

We win the rebel, but not with staves, 
No singers rot in paupers' graves; 
No seeker covers his sudden light 
In fear lest we plunge his soul in night, 
He shows all men his trembling ray 
And their kindly sympathy cheers his way 
On through the vast and lonely dark 
Till we kindle an age from one true spark. 
So year by year mankind improves. 
We have learned our lesson 'The world still 
moves.* . . . 

Yes! look what Science has grandly done, 

Where all was night flames the risen Sun! . . . 

And Hunger: is this spectre real? \ 

Have you ever gone without a meal?" 

(I'll omit his pleas ad hominem. 
Few indeed could answer them) : 

"Those who labour win plenty to eat, 
And we keep the orphan clean and sweet ; 
Mankind is one Brotherhood 
Whose common weal is the common good," 

{To some this may not be a platitude — 
Tautology is a mental foodj) 

"This have we learned, and act upon; 
Oppression is dead as Babylon. ... 

128 



Though they did His mortal body to death 

Good came out of Nazareth, 

So at last we have washed gross filth away, — 

But the deeper stain shall abide alway, 

For we know some truths that He knew not. . . . 

Your Judge complained of the common lot; 
Well, slavery stands on the Books a crime — 
When was this true before our time?" 

Then his voice rose high on an eloquent change 
With a certain irrelevance more than strange: 
"THANK GOD WE ARE NOT AS THOSE 

PHARISEES 
WHO SLEW WITH THE TONGUE AND 

PRAYED WITH THE KNEES!" 



129 



SHORTER JETS 



REMARK 

The following canticles are collectively called 
Shorter Jets, — see the Remark, prefaced to The 
Singer. 

The relative importance of the subjects treated 
is not to be rashly estimated by the brevity of the 
whiffs. It is a fact that precisely at the times of 
maximum pressure, my conscience has a disconcert- 
ing and ungodly trick of seating itself as solidly as 
possible — and my conscience is singularly, even rude- 
ly, robust — squarely on the safety-valve. Under 
such circumstances, the only sensible thing to do is 
to make for the open with all possible speed, — 
emotions and all. Hence, not infrequently have I 
missed seeing what actually is in the boiler — a sub- 
ject upon which more than one friend still has 
lively doubts. I fully expect that some day, curi- 
osity will get the better of discretion, and that all 
three of us, conscience, emotions, and the rest of 
me, will make a sudden and spectacular ascent up 
into the heavens — or heaven, as the case may be. 
But the fall will be something to remember. Con- 
science, as well as Truth, has its martyrs. Who 
would wish a more glorious death? Icarus and the 
aeroplane are as butterflies to an eagle when com- 
pared with him who dares the perils of the unknown 
that wait each one of us in the boudoir or oyster- 
palace. 



132 



LOVE IN 1915 

Hear, Mistress mine, the lyric love I sing, 

Our souls were wedded in the afterglow 
Of Babylon's red fall, and we two know 

The ringing shout that hailed pure Arthur "King!" 

Our modern marriage is a stupid thing, 

Soul-mate of mine, divorce is quite as slow 
And alimony makes the dollars go; 

Affinity! we'll have a jolly fling! 

You are my prize, rich fur-besmothered Queen, 
Soul of our busy age whose full tides flow 
Through your hot pulses, — here's the limousine! 

You are the sweetest girl on earth, and Oh! 

I'll love you with an endless love, altho' 
You reek of too rich food and gasoline. 



133 



K l'/»4 



WERTHER EXHUMED 

To Anita 

By her own request. 

Pensive, proud, she stands, 

A Pythoness in truth, 

Anita, sombre-eyed : 
And, shall her love's commands 

Be heedlessly denied? 

Her lips are scarlet-dyed, 
Like these, her rosy hands 

Are moist with youth. 

Tall and stately she, 

Anita, long of limb; 

Free, and strong of stride, 
Majestic as the sea — 

She walks alone in pride. 

Not yet a splendid bride : 
Who will her lover be? — 

I envy him. 

Her chin is sweetly cleft 

In winsome witchery; 

Her eyebrows ask (the right 
Arched higher than the left) 

If she is my delight? 

How frank a maiden's might! 
How swift her smile, how deft 

Its devilry ! 



134 



Oh Love's o'erflowing Bowl! 

Oh blest polygamy! 

Oh Goethe's plural lives! 
To Turkey, O my soul 

We'll flee, where Eros thrives 

On love and many wives, — 
Oh there I'll move my whole 

Damned family! 

Come ! clamber in the van. 
The furniture an' a' that 
We'll pile beside you there: 

Come, shake a leg my man, 
Anita's in despair: — 
Throw in my wife and chair. 

Bring every pot and pan, 
Bring too, the Cat. 



135 



WILLIAM IN BELGIUM, 1914 

"Lord god of hosts, who may oppose thy hand? 

O Israel's ancient one be with Me now; 

Myself and thou shall break the brutal brow 
Of him who knows not Kultur: take command, 
Good lord, and lead our Landwehr's flaming band 

To Paris: god! almighty Hun, be thou 

My First Lieutenant, — raise a Rhenish row 
With Me at Rheims, — ^why should thy tavern stand ? 

Other gods than Me thou shalt have none! 

Lo! Belgium's mourners number as the sand 
And call in vain upon thy vanquished son, 

Yet One shall cheer the orphan's misery — 
Myself! — High Emblem of Our Fatherland." 

Aye, madman, drunk with blood and blasphemy. 



136 



BALLAD* OF ENGLAND'S SECRET 

{By Herr Pilatus Scheinheilige) 

King Philip he sank on his pious knees: 

"I've gathered a mighty Fleet; 
O Lord my God, let me sweep the seas" — 

(He prayed with a holy heat,) 
"Knock Thou Elizabeth off her throne 

And bid her kiss my feet; 
Thy will be done, O God — Thine Own — 

(Though it strangely resembles mine) 
Ride Thou upon the favoring blast 

And make proud England Thine." 
Then all the Angels cried : "Avast ! 

England ! ! Thy day is past ! ! !" 
But good Queen Bess, she went to the Devil 

(And that's a bald, bad fact,) 
She cried: "What ho! wake up! you lubber! 

Gadzooks! your Fold's attacked! 



*At the expense of considerable linguistic research, 
I have translated this charming Ballad from a little 
book entitled "Hymns of Love" by Herr Dr. Phil. 
Pilatus Scheinheilige. I fear my task is but ill-done, 
for in translation the Ballad must of necessity lose 
much of that freshness which is exhaled from the 
original like a briny blast. Unfortunately the Ballad 
in its native form will be inaccessible to any but highly- 
trained Philologists, for it is written in that most 
difficult of languages to understand — the Lusitanian, a 
tongue which, however, a scholar of Dr. Scheinheilige's 
calibre (forty-two on the International scale,) unerring- 
ly wields with telling effect. Dr. Scheinheilige needs no 
introduction to the English-speaking world. His labours 
as Honorary Librarian at Louvain (Belgium) during 
the Autumn semester of 1914 have assured him more 
than a passing regard. As Imperial Stotterer and 

137 



Now, don't stand grinning, you lazy lout*' — 

And Bess, she up, and smacked 
His royal rump where the tail should sprout — 

"Well! Sooty Booby, blubber!" 
"Now by the Trinity that's rude! 

My back's not made of rubber — 
But what's the row?" — his Majesty said; 

"I thought you were rather a prude." 
"King Philip, he wears his knees threadbare 

And bows his humble head 
To Almighty God with a canting prayer : — 

'Wipe England from the sea,' 
Says he, 'for the glory of thy name, 

And the thanks I'll give to thee; 
Moreover, I'll build a sizable church 

In every village and town 
When thou givest London up to the flame 

And dost old England brown.' 
Will you keep the gentleman's word you gave, 

Nor leave us in the lurch?" 
"Of course!" said he with an injured air — 

"Of course! That's understood." 



Exchange-Professor in International Law to the Conti- 
nent of North America in 1915, he achieved conspicu- 
ous publicity. His visit was marred somewhat by a 
regrettable notoriety over the wienerwurst affair. The 
Doktor rightly contended that sausage is unfit for 
human consumption if based upon pig or dog meat, 
rather than infant-flesh as a groundwork. The English- 
speaking rabble — as usual — failed to see the justice of 
this view, and the Professor departed from our hos- 
pitable shores in a huff, remarking that Dean Swift, 
a high dignitary of the Church of England, in studying 
Ireland long ago, made an identical observation, which 
was well received at that time. 

The Lusitanian Language is richly expressive, and 
has intimate affinities with the Barbarian (the native 

138 



"Then who will your lieutenant be 

To humble the pride of Spain?" 
"Weel, I dinna ken sae muckle o'men 

Syne your auld dad cam tae me, 
He maks sic a din wi' his kith an' kin 

I've nae opportunitee 
T' regale mysel' wi' mortail sin — 

His wives juist gie me hell; 
But for lang syne's sake, Sir Francis Drake 

Shall do this thing for me, 
(He's quite like me, — a bit of a rake,) 

My duck shall sweep the sea." 
"And you'll not turn tail in God's fierce gale 

When his galleons tread the waves?" 
"That breeze I'll veer," grinned he with a leer, 

"And split King Philip's sail. 
For deep is the sea and full oi graves 

It's bottom is Hell's high roof, 
And men shall learn that My Name saves," 

(He stamped his imperious hoof) ; 
"That mine is the conquering battle-line. 

And mine the fool's reproof; 
That hell afloat in a cockle-shell 

Shall rule the untamed main; — 



language of the Barbary Coast, Africa (not San Fran- 
cisco).) 

Prefixed to the original Ballad is the following motto, 
for which I have found no suitable rendering: Per-, 
haps some of my readers can help me. 

IKcalb'elt tekeht 'dellac'ti, 
'Neh w'edutit alp'a ni'degliidni, 
Top'eht xob, — tnia' psli/ 

'Ve D'eht'ni'r oiiloc'e no'tub'si 

E. 'Reht Ecnis. 



Aye ! a leaky boat with a coal of hell 

Shall eat the pride of Spain: 
They shall toll for their ships the mourning bell, 

And for their drowned shall weep, 
Their priests shall number the sainted slain — 

I'll tally 'em with a grin; 
But ever I keep my faithful sheep, 

The righteous shall not win; 
The prayer of Cain was not in vain. 

And mine is the bottomless deep ; 
The English are mine, and worship me 

In beef and good port-wine; 
As a lasting sign these ducks are mine 

They shall sweep my 'wine-dark' sea, 
And harry all ships like the maddened swine 

I chased on the Gadarene lea : 
Let the fight begin! — and bet on Sin!!" — 

The rest is History. 

******** 

So ever it's gone on Sea or Land 

From China to old Khartoum, 
And the pious folk "don't understand 

How God allows such things." 
They pull sour faces of holy gloom 

While Kruger's fat ghost sings 
Penitential Psalms from a bloated book ' 

(Like that he used to affect 
With his ripe gourd pipe and trusty Krag,), 

Forecasting the Rooinek's doom, — 
Or reads the ghost of a telegram — 

From which these folk expect 
A rallying rush to far Pot's-Dam, 

But the 'rising' dies of neglect. 



140 



The opium-trade throws a delicate shade 

Over lands Mohammedan, 
And the Buddhist knows from his head to his toes 

What a wreck the English made 
Of a thing God meant to resemble a man, 

Till, — England spilled the plan; 
To his great distress she made a mess 

Of the irridescent scheme: 
''And England shall pay at the Judgment-Day!" — 

The missionaries scream, 
"That gory price her red greed owes 

For China's opium dream!" 
With pitiless logic the preacher shows 

From this worn-out disgrace, 
That the Babu yearns for the Lord alway — 

Hence, India's a hell of a place! 
*'She has always lied, and she ever stole; 

How long, O Lord, how long?" 
But these pious folk don't understand 

From Cathay to the golden Rand, 
That the simple word of a Gentleman 

Is good as his note of hand; 
And that Britain won her "Place in the Sun" — 

Her Place so snug and tight — 
When fine diplomacy first began, 

(The Devil is always polite) 
By selling herself to the Prince of Night 

For the price oi her paltry soul. 
The Lord of Darkness walks in might, 

And He'll win Britain's fight 
For just so long as men serve Wrong 

And pray to eternal Right. 



141 



I met the Devil the other day, 

He was wearing a tall silk hat, • 
His coat was black and his breeches gray — 

(Disguised as a diplomat) : 
"What will you have?" he asked with a smile; 

"Oh, — a dry martini," I said. 
"The brandy here is simply vile, 

Their vermouth a ghastly joke," 
He growled. "Would a gin-fizz touch the spot?" 

He listlessly nodded his head. 
And gave the waiter this parting-shot: 

"Leave out that seltzer-rot. 
It's flat. — Use holy-water instead !" 

Then, added with a bow: 
"You perceive, I'm strictly temperate now. 

I never go drunk to bed!" 

"Well, how is your jolly Flock to-day? 

Does England ever regret 
That she sold herself for power and pelf 

Like an ass for a bale of hay? 
Does she toil and sweat to pay her debt?" 

And the Devil grinned, "You bet!" 
"Have you always adhered" — I rather sneered — 

"To the bargain you two made. 
That they who speak the English tongue 

Shall own creation wide, 
A single nation in single pride 

That God shall never divide. 
Or, haven't you played like a wanton jade 

Rather a two-faced game?" 

"Being British myself I feel no shame," 
(But the Devil sadly hung 



142 



His well-bred head and softly sighed,) 

"For the dirty tricks I've done; 
There was Washington (a jewel of a boy 

And a regular Son of a Gun) : — 
When with fiendish joy he began to annoy 

His brothers, the British, I wept; 
'The scoundrel's English himself!' I cried, 

'Now, what in Hell can I do?' 
While England slept I just side-stepped 

The issue, — but felt quite blue. 
Tor after all, he's English too,' 

And all his ways, I knew 
Were honestly got — " he sipped his fizz 

Then winked his eye at me — 
"I saw what I'd do and yet be true 

To the gentleman's word I gave: 
To my dearly beloved Son I said, 

'Mammon, I'll deed to you 
The whole of America's promising Lands — 

I'm tired of imported tea 
That comes not in well duty-free, 

I'll up with my tail, and away; 
Collar the booty and do your duty, 

I'll back to the Goodwin Sands — 
But you may stay and the 'U. S. A.' 

Shall grow beneath your hands: 
George Washington, he likes a cherry-tree 

And he's a promising youth. 
He's taught the English the worth of truth — 

(But an apple-tree for me/)" 
The Devil grinned: "Can you say I sinned? 

It's still in the Family! — 

Sometimes among themselves they fight" — 
And the Devil grew glum and sad: 

143 



"Such a state of affairs is bad, — damned bad'' — 

He heaved a sulphurous sigh: 
''The Irish are whiter than angels of light" — 

And the Devil began to cry; 
"Wherever they mix in politics 

It nearly drives me mad ; 
They're always right, and they always fight 

The English with English tricks, 
They lie like thieves, which sorely grieves 

Their masters' duplicity; — 
But what can I do? I must be true 

To the gentleman's word I gave, 
So I shut one eye and pass them by — 

And Ireland is England's slave. 
If I let them loose it would raise the Deuce 

(Myself! you understand) 
With my tight little Isle, you readily see, 

So I urge them to emigrate^' — 
Here the Devil smiled and his smile was bland; 

"The English pay the freight. 
And thanks to Me are the Irish free — 

New York's their sovereign State ! — 

Then there's the Scotch, — another botch 

Who swindle like God's own Jews, 
Who drink hell-fire and drink it 'neat,' 

That's a canty puckle to lose — 
But what can I do? I must be true 

To the gentleman's word I gave. 
So Scotland sits at England's feet — 

I'd like her for mysel'; 
I'm a bletherin' body and winna greet — 

I'm English! and must be brave. 
Especially as — " he stamped both feet — 

"The whole World's going to Hell!" 

144 



I DAVID IN HEAVEN 

"Bring a crystal sphere and a psaltery, 
For that draws nigh my soul would see." 

They laid the scroll by the King's right hand, 
By his left the sphere on its malachite stand. 

To one who played on a dulcimer, 

He said, "Let your song remember her." 

High was the hall, and all around 

The music wailed with a plaintive sound. 

Black were the hangings on ceil and wall, 
Deadly black as a funeral-pall. 

To her who played on the dulcimer, 
"Sing," said the King, "the days that were: 

How one brought down the wrath of God 
And kissed with his heart the scourging rod." 

And the player sang the Song of Songs, 
Till it wailed a woe of unanswered wrongs 

And sank by minors to dumb despair 
That a man's own wife should be so fair. 

Then Uriah the Hittite lived again. 

But his eyes were the eyes of one new-slain 

Where they stared from the hangings on wall and 

ceil, 
Uncountable eyes that the damned may feel. 

145 



And the King gazed long in the crystal sphere, 
(It was hard and dry as a harlot's tear) : 

The Hittite's wife with a babe on her knees, — 
Puny, and marked by a swift disease — 

Was the thing he saw, and the player sang: 
"In the foremost rank the true spear rang: 

('Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth') 
And stark lies the innocent babe in death." 

Thus sang the Player, and quickly the King 
Woke from his dream, — remembering. 

He turned to the scroll with a guilty start, — 
"But I was a man after God's own heart." 

And she who played on the dulcimer 
Sang, "O Liar and Adulterer, 

Your songs are sung in the courts of heaven 
And your grievous trespass is all forgiven ; 

Bathsheba lies with her own true lord ; 

('Who taketh the sword shall fall by the sword,') 

This thing, O King, was truly writ, 
Why should thy soul remember it?" 

Then the hangings moved, — a living lie, — 
The souls of those whoi justify 

The liar's lips and the coward's deed 

By the rotten rags of their outworn creed, 

146 



And a vast throng moved before the King, 
Saying, "We too have done this thing: 

Each of us slew his ovini dear friend 

That our lusts might come to a joyous end; 

Are w^e after God's heart as thou hast been, 
Or are our souls as the beasts, unclean?" 

Dumb vv^as the King, and the hangings fell 
Black on the floor as the clouds of hell. 

He answered not, but a low-sung moan — 
"Let him who is sinless cast a stone" — 

Sighed round the hall over smoke and all ; 
Then vanished as mist the fallen pall. 

And the King looked down on the woman*s hair, 
It was all unbound and exceeding fair; 

By her idle hand the dulcimer 
Broken lay, and he spoke to her: 

"Whose words were those you uttered now. 

And why is the band unloosed from your brow?" 

"The words were of him your songs foretell, 
Your longed-for son, Emmanuel; 
And my hair falls down with odours sweet 
For it washed the dust from his stainless feet." 



147 



WAR-POETRY 

"The European conflict has not called forth any 
great verse. . . ." — Review. 

Know how the heroes live: 
On a land like a sodden drain 
Rotten with centuries' filth, 
Alive with invisible pain, 

In cold that freezes the bones 
Till the marrow shrivels up numb, 
Under a shrapnel hail 
Faithful as dogs, and dumb; 

In torments their souls pass out. 
They are dying that we may live, 
They stand between us and hell 
And each has a life to give: 

Men in their first fair youth, 

Men with sweethearts or wives, , 

Men by millions on millions — 

And no man has two lives; 

Women who scrub all day 
Unspeakable offal from floors. 
Who wash through the endless night 
Live matter from putrid sores; 

Protestant Chaplains who shoot. 
And Catholic Priests who sink 
Their creed under withering fire 
To give a mad infidel drink ; 

X48 



Physicians who know not race, 
Surgeons of tireless skill 
Who heed onfe call alone^ — ' 

The voice of Humanity's will, 

From Europe, from Asia they come, 
America sends her few, — 
Agnostic, Mohammedan, Buddhist, 
Atheist, Christian, Jew, 

Who know not if Christ sits dead 
At the orgy of murder and lust, 
But thank God that Pasteur lived 
And that Lister was true to his trust. 

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ iHH 

Entrails, livers and brains. 
Flesh spattered over a trench, 
Dysentery, typhus, and flies, 
Pus and its sickening stench; 

Tetanus arching a spine 
Inward, and rigid as steel. 
Till the occiput touches at last 
The stony palm of the heel; 

Chlorine melting to froth 

The lungs of a Hercules 

Till they slowly foam from his lips 

In one prolonged disease; 

Gas from a gangrened heart 
Exposed to the pestilent air — 
So foul that the surgeons faint 
As they battle with death laid bare; 

149 



Maggots in festering wounds, 

Jellies oozing from eyes, 

Splintered patella and pelvis — 

That's how a hero dies. 
****** 

A hog's deep grunt or a groan 

As the shell scoops out his guts, 

A shivering idiot's moan 

As he crawls from the tumbled huts- 

These are the Poems he writes 
In agony, worms, and dirt. 
This Poet of war and its glory 
As the lice boil out from his shirt — 

As his mouth bubbles bloody foam: 
He is the Man who fights, 
He has a right to the story — 
He dies for our cowardly rights: 

We valiant wielders of pen. 

We braggarts who skulk at home, 

We cowardly excuses for men 

Who charge from our beds or chairs — 

And urge our brothers to go, 
Can cling to the old women's skirts — 
Can quit our babble and blow 
And hold our contemptible tongues. 



150 



A QUARTER OF A CENTURY OF SONG 



A. D. 1890. Decayed Gentility, By the Last of 
the Preadamites. 

The sweedle-beast is on the trees 
With dulcimers and potiphars; 
A ditch of blue-eyed nunaphars 
Goes steaming up the breeze. 

'Tis midnight's moist corobboree: 
A greenish sweat is dankly dripping 
Down the anguished face of me, 
Greenish absinthe sipping. 

She will be late ? She will not come ! 
Her golden gules are galley-west; 
The vampire's toothless mouth is dumb, 
A scorpion stings Salome's breast. 

She will not come. Who knows, afraid? 
I see her thread the hairy air 
Coquettishly, my Chambermaid 
With dustpans in her hair. 



151 



n 

A. D. 1915. Soulful Adolescence. By One of the 
Liberators, sex unknown. 

Me! 

Sunset: violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange. 
Red, 

The whole rainbow in fact. 

If I knew Chemistry I might include the names of 
Several thousand coal-tar dyes; 
In the West 

A tipsy cook has flung a plate 
Of ham and eggs ( "sunny-side-up," "once-over,") 
All over God's lavender firmament. 
What a mess. 

I am wearing my new pink-trimmed, flounced lin- 
gerie. 
I! I! I! 

Later: Cold-buttered muffins 

(Muffin English Confection, tuppence, three) 

Piled in doughy masses 

Around the horizon; possibly rain. 

Myself! 

You make me sick with your praises. 

Cease ! 

I would like to do something really great — 

Sail up the swamps of the Zambesi, 

Africa — 

And convert the missionaries — 

Bang-O! Tang-O! hallelujah! — just like that.* 



*This line is to be shouted out loudly in the manner 
of an Evangelist denouncing the Devil for dancing. 

152 



Time 10:37 P« ^' Moon rising. 
This is shameful. 
I fear I am a pantheist — 
The Moon is stark-naked, 
Full, 

Reminds me of the hole in a doughnut — 
Large, luscious, greasy, crystals of sugar 
That grate on your teeth 
And set your hair on edge, — porcupine. 
Flavoured with cinnamon. 
Ugh! 

Mother made doughnuts; 
Who made this large white unbaked Moon ? 
I feel that I have just discovered 
God and Life. 

The latter has jabbed her hatpin into me and I am 
furious. 

When were we two spoons ever anything to one an- 
other ? 

I have discovered Myself! 

Also 

That at this rate 

It is possible to cover 

Four hundred pages of foolscap 

Foolscap ! 

In one hour, also 

That the Public is as great a fool as I 

Or a greater 

And will buy my Verse (this thing is written in 
Free Verse,) 

And pay for it. 

I wonder if the Public ever reads any of it? 

I don't! 



153 



ITHE ADVANCEMENT OF LEARNING 

Coaeval we with hoary centuries, 

Time's richest heirs, all things we prove and know ; 

Heaven hath no secrets now, nor Earth, we trow: 
Our Age has comprehended mould on cheese. 
Long amours of the worm, philandering fleas, 

The Second Part of Faust, and oleo- 

Margarine. Whose mind, majestic, slow, 
Untangled Zeus from Voodoo Trinities? 

Who won mankind those victories? — or these — 
Psychology or crocodiles' remorse. 
Those geodesies true on yonder torse, 

Poor Shakespeare's uncrossed f's and dotless /*s — 
Yon Pedagogic Cart before the Horse? 

Turn! grateful World! Behold your Ph. D's! 



154 



THE GIANT 

Fashioned like a god he lolls or sprawls 
His bestial bulk on vineyard, temple, mart; 
Drunk on too much life, he whines or bawls 
His brutish will, and vomits forth his heart 
On Science and all Art. 

Small favours please him best ; a paper crown 
Awakens well this tyrant's childish glee; 
He would be dignified, but apes the clown, — 
Enslaved by Ignorance, shouts "I am free, 
No master beats me down !" 

High-sounding adulation lulls his greed, 
Oratory stills his restlessness ; 
Distrust of Intellect and Ease his creed, 
Sometimes he knows the Simian's dumb distress: 
"Am I a man, or less?" 



155 



FLOWERS 

One spoke of laurel, and one said "rue ; 
This will I wear in the thing I do." 

"Myrtle be mine with its briny spice," 
"This," sang another, "is my device." 

"Laurel and myrtle, rue you three 

May choose, but the leaf of the bay for me;" 

This was the fourth choice, prouder yet 
Was she who chose the mignonette: 

"The flower is frail, but its perfume rare. 
It will make of my life a pleasant snare." 

Her sister spoke for the laurustine, 

"It smells of the brine but not of the wine." 

The seventh, whose eye's were green with guile 
Smiled on them all his crafty smile: 

"You have chosen the best, and I, forlorn 
Must take what is left, — the bramble thorn." 

There are seven graves on the fair hill-side, 
And over them all is the bramble's pride. 



156 



THE LAST STAND 



REMARK 

Realizing that any Book of Verses which is pub- 
lished, within three thousand miles of either the 
Hub of the Universe or Kaleyard University, is in- 
complete without an Ode, Panegyric, or Dithyramb 
to the National Honour Society of the Phi Beta 
Kappa ($ B K), and feeling acutely my utter in- 
ability to rise to the nobility of such an Ode, 
Panegyric or Dithyramb on my own account, I ask- 
ed a very dear friend, Phidias Jenks Hostetter- 
AddamSj for a copy of his Address to the ^ B K. He 
kindly responded, and the following, with but a few 
trifling changes of punctuation, spelling, etc., is his 
oration, as given. The full title is displayed, ac- 
cording to the Professor's wish, on the next page. 

/. T. 



158 



THE LAST STAND 

AN ORATION 

Delivered by 
PHIDIAS JENKS HOSTETTER-ADDAMS, 
Ph. D., LL.D,, L.H.D., Litt.D., Charter Member 
of the National Academy of Oratory; Twice Am- 
bassador to the Court of St. Anthony; Past Presi- 
dent of the Tea-Party Commemorative Association; 
Joint-Editor of the Hub Series of JVorld-Famous 
New-England Sages and Philosophers; Foreign As- 
sociate {in Aesthetics) of the Zanzibar Academy of 
Fine Arts; Author of Works upon Zulu Art, Sum- 
erian Medallions, and Embroidery for Men; Trans- 
lator of the Early Epics of the Seychelle Islands; 
Co-Author of What is Significant in the Dunghills of 

Japan for our Western Art; etc.; etc.; etc.; 

HEAD PROFESSOR of AESTHETICS and 

FINE ARTS 

in the 

COEDUCATIONAL UNIVERSITY OF 

ORAL EXPRESSION 

at 

Athens, (Massachusetts,) 

on the 

OCCASION 

of the 

nth ANNUAL INITIATION CEREMONIES 

and BANQUET 

of the 

SMYTHE UNIVERSITY CHAPTER 

of 

$ B K 

(fee. bayta. kappa.) 

159 



THE LAST STAND 

"Coreligionists ! Attend ! I greet 

You in the name of our Society, 

Phi Beta Kappa; settle in your seat 

Too weary striver after a degree, 

Yield up your soul to wisdom's soothing hand; 

And you. Professor, 'lend your ears to me,' 

For I will smooth your mind with honey bland 

As oil, and butter all your soul with praise. 

Lest these our neophytes misunderstand 

Those honours we confer with our green bays, — 

('Key' is more accurate, I lacked a rhyme) — 

And fly before a world of envious jays, 

Lone Birds of Paradise, I briefly speak 

Of what Phi-Beta-Kappa's Emblem means. 

As most of you are unaware, it's Greek : 
Melodious Greek! What dream-enchanted scenes 
That tongue recalls on hill or sapphire shore — 
Aegean Isles and sunward-sloping greens 
Toward the sea, — ^where maidens dance no more, 
The littoral of Greece ! O Golden Fleece 
Man stole from jealous Time, we still adore 
The glorious wars and yet more glorious peace 
Men fought for thee, or wrought beside the sea 
That shall go dry before we turn from Greece, 
Our pride, as Time's. O Greece, who made us free, 
Who showed all men wide splendours of the mind, 
Afar in these dull years we follow thee. 
Goddess fair of Poetry, and find 
Thy name writ large on delphic mysteries 
Vain Science would uncover to mankind: 



i6o 



Turn her where she will, stern Physics sees 
Thy changeless eyes behind her fevered fret ; 
Bright swords, our own Phi Beta Kappa Keys 
Flash flaming out, lest men, like birds, forget 
The Sun of Yesterday is that same star 
Which cheers Today. Thy light has never set, 
O Greece! Let rowdy Radium blare afar 
Her journalistic eulogies, she moves 
Not us; we know things as they were, and are. 

Biology with tardy nod approves 
Anaximander's youthful work that showed 
True Evolution's course along the grooves 
Of time; gray Mathematics plods a road 
Worn smooth by Antiphon's and Bryson's feet, 
Toward eternal Euclid's far abode 
Where parallels at last converge and meet; 
Harsh Chemistry with awkward twist or wrench 
Rends wine from rags and sugar from the beet — 
For what? — Demokritos from stink to stench 
Proclaims once more that Atoms do exist. 

The legions of Geology entrench 
Behind old Vulcan, whose tartarean mist 
Begets the nebular hypothesis; 
Volcanoes spout their fire nor yet desist 
Though Pseudo-Science chain the gods amiss 
In formulae. 

Eugenics tells once more 
The story of the State's innocuous kiss. 
Communal virtue, which all men deplore 
Departed from us with that wisest man — 
That sanest son his Country ever bore — 
Plato, seer, and first Republican. 

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Deliver, Logic, thou my pregnant Muse! 

Tell thou where finished Reason first began. 

Where first Man learned to follow subtle clues 

And where all modes of thinking rose complete : 

Stand firm, O Truth, on thine hypothenuse. 

No demonstration shakes thy steadfast feet 

Or shatters Thee to any lesser squares; 

Leap on, Achilles! Greek of all most fleet, 

No speed of thine shall free thee from the snares 

One wove around thy path, the tortoise creeps 

Inevitably on while Strength despairs 

To overtake slow Diligence, — ^while sleeps 

Our modern mind ; stand still, thou Arrow swift 

As Jove's own bird in blue ethereal deeps. 

Moving, but at rest : O Science ! lift 

These magic spells of mystery, destroy 

The Mind's first Temple, aye, and frenzied, shift 

Foundations from our syllogistic joy; 

Resolve who can the Sophists' paradox. 

By their strong Engine, Science is a toy. 

Research is wrecked on Aristotle's rocks — 
Those fundaments that tower above our time: 
Aye, pick in vain, proud Athens yet unlocks 
The treasure-house of Nature, — more sublime 
Her high Acropolis than all your shows 
Of anthropoids and panengendering slime. 

Did Shakespeare botanize a so-called rose, 
Or Dante know Astronomy ? One gave 
Us Juliet, one Paradisios. 



162 



Therefore! Initiates, let Science r^v6{ 
For us, her strident voice has no appeal. 
Only careful Scholarship can save 
Our world from ruin : Books alone are real, 
The Letter liveth and the Word abides. 

Despise all vulgar knowledge, humbly feel 

Along those Corridors where Truth resides 

On shelves in Histories and heavy Tomes, 

In those dim Caves where Dragon Bookworm hides 

Fair damsels Learning lured from our Best Homes, 

Where Hydra Mildew rears its horrid head 

'O'er glorious Greece and grandeur that was 

Rome's' — 
Humbly feel, and mingle with the Dead, 
Breathe in their dust and holy atmosphere. 

Our Motto reads : 'The Best has All been said ;' 
Heed not low Self-assertion's taunting sneer, 
'Do not you think? Must you forever quote?' — 
His Grammar is the poison Scholars fear. 
Be this your high resolve: to learn by rote 
Each day some masterpiece in Prose or Verse; 
Digest our Modern Orators of note. 
So, when Opinion baits, an answer terse 
As Attic salt, or sweeping as the Nile 
Annihilates the monster; aye, rehearse 
Your Epigrams! 

Be solemn, seldom smile; 
A simpering mouth betrays a vacant mind 
As leaking roofs betray the loosened tile. 
Sneak daintily, be chaste, your words refined: 



163 



Two syllables may do the work of one; 

Avoid 'back of,' always say 'behind,' 

And Oh, above all else forever shun 

'It lays,' 'they was' ('It lies' is more correct, 

'They were' is used by every Baron's son 

Abroad, I'm told,) and never interject 

'Aint it elegant?' when music's played. 

Then all will whisper, 'Here is Intellect, 

Here Culture is. . . .' Before you leave the 

shade 
Of Alma Mater, I initiate 
Your minds to our Arcanum ; unafraid 
Behold our secret! 

Hear: Old Books relate, 
"Our Order s Founders knew the Alphabet 
In Greek! and recognised without debate 
The whole two dozen letters! Stranger yet. 
When thrice ten years had rolled their wheels around 
Phi Beta Kappa^s Key securely set 
On lasting rock, a learned man was found 
Within our very Order who read Greek — 
In the original. Let us resound 
His praises! Proper Father of our clique. 
He gave the letters meaning, strove to fit 
The true Hellenic tongue to them : a week 
He laboured with a Lexicon and wit — 
Succeeded! First he joined pot-bellied Fee 
To Greek for Fear; with cunning learning, knit 
This Fear to Bayta {looks just like a B,) — 
First letter of the Grecian verb. We bleat ; 
Thus far,W'E bleat a fear. Of what? You see 
Engraved upon the Key, so nicely neat 
A thing that masquerades as Roman K? 
Well, that is Kappa,^/^// them in the street 

164 



// any ask, and boldly, proudly say 

That Greek of independent judgment spells 

Itself with K, — the Greeks abolished J." 

Such is the Truth <S» B K tells 

In mystic signs : our potent Key unlocks 

Those rusty gates that guard Pierian Wells 

From all the mob which stands without and mocks 

The drinking soul within ; and this same Key 

Shall close your world to Thinking's ruder shocks — 

From Independent Judgment set you free. 

'Hold high the Torch' — nor let it scorch your hand 

You leave these Halls with our bright Mystery 

Drawn closely round you : Sentinels ! you stand 

Against a Night of Ignorance, — alone; 

Imagination's ever-slipping sand 

Would slowly smother you, be firm as stone; 

Though Bedouins of Reason would entice 

You to their Camp, quit not the Danger Zone 

Free-Thought assails; hold you at any price 

Our Holy Sepulchre — the Fearless Right 

To Mediocrity, that flattened Spice 

Of life. If vulgar scoffers doubt our might. 

You are the answer, let them gaze on you. 

Your lonely watch will have its own delight: 
Forever contemplate these things most true — 
All these you know, — and beautiful, — all these 
You own. Sweet Pity has her comforts too ; 
Reflect how Science hugs her beggaries, 
Her unimaginative clouts of prose, — 
How Beauty shuns her like a foul disease. 
Reflect, and murmur, *Oh, we wisely chose, 

i6s 



All Poetry is ours, aesthetic sense 
Is ours alone.' — Ah yes! the queenly rose 
Is still a rose, her perfume quite intense 
As in those happy fields of templed Greece. 

And now I kiss the Key in reverence: 
Go gladly forth, nor let your labours cease 
Till all are levelled to your Middle Kind, — 
Till Mediocrity lies down at peace 
With rampant Individuality: 
Inheritors of the N ew -England-Mind 
Go forth, and show $ B K's Key, 
Democracy's true 'Open-Sesame !' '* 



i66 



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